


Since I First Laid Eyes on You

by Mx_Maneater



Series: Taking Flight [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Harry Potter, Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas, Coming Out, Draco Malfoy Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Halloween, Harry Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter Thinks Draco Malfoy is Up to Something, Harry Potter is Bad at Feelings, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, Light BDSM, M/M, Mentions of pre-Harry sexual encounters, Nightmares, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Professor Draco Malfoy, Professor Harry Potter, Quidditch, Sequel, Slow Build Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 79,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24022957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Maneater/pseuds/Mx_Maneater
Summary: "It was like the universe had conspired to obliterate his self-control through unrelenting proximity."Disgraced ex-Death Eater, Draco Malfoy, was stumbling through post-war life and just trying to find a place that would hire him.  He certainly didn't expect McGonagall to offer him a job back at Hogwarts.  Just like he never could have suspected that he would be teaching alongside HarryfuckingPotter.Which honestly would've been fine - if Draco didn't have a huge secret.Hewantedhim.  He'd wanted him for years.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Taking Flight [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1732843
Comments: 124
Kudos: 232





	1. Building from the Wreckage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome to the sequel to [The New Flight Instructor!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20419643/chapters/48440609)
> 
> While this story charts Draco's perspective starting from the same point as TNFI, you should definitely _read that work first_. There are important events and conversations that will be mentioned, but not rewritten in their entirety, to cut down on redundancy in this sequel. However, there's also going to be new bits featuring portions of Draco's recent past (the two years between the war and then teaching). Therefore, this story is going to be a bit darker and angstier than TNFI, just by nature of Draco's journey being a little darker and angstier.  
> Altogether, this story will elaborate and expand upon my original work, so I hope you'll join me for that journey if you enjoyed the first one!

The past two years had been utterly abysmal. That much, he could say with absolute certainty. He had watched his home fall into ruin, his family torn into drifting constellations of pain, and he had endured worse treatment and humiliation than he had ever experienced in his life. But the worst part about all of this was that no matter how awful these past two years had been, they were still not the _worst_ years of Draco Malfoy’s life.  
  
The worst years, of course, had been the hellish expanse of time that the Dark Lord had inhabited his home. During that period, all his nights had been fever dreams, and all his days had been spent regretting that he had woken up at all. And the screams - the screams had soaked into the very walls of his home. Made the once comforting place cold, unfeeling.  
  
Like he himself had turned.  
  
Draco clunked his glass down onto the counter. Once he started dwelling on the _screams_ , then it was just a small step to the _murders_ , and it was always a downward spiral from there. There were so many nightmares so eager to crawl across his skin. Best to leave bad memories alone.  
  
He glanced around the tavern, warmed by the familiarity of The Three Broomsticks after so long. After the war, he hadn’t been back to Hogsmeade for fear of the reactions, fear of running into people he knew - or rather, _who knew him_. That much hadn’t changed in two years - but, for once, his circumstances had. For the first time in his adult life, Draco had been offered a glimmer of hope.  
  
More specifically, he’d been offered a _job_.  
  
McGonagall - now Headmistress - had chosen to give him a second chance and hire him back at Hogwarts. It wasn’t his dream position by any means - he’d be taking over for Madam Hooch as the school’s flight instructor, when he’d much prefer to work in Potions. But in light of the many dehumanizing “jobs” he had taken on this past year, her kindness at offering him _anything_ made him happy enough to cry.  
  
It reminded him of another professor who had given him a second chance - only then, he hadn’t taken it. And the regret still swelled in his throat like a dense, dead thing.  
  
His remorse about Dumbledore was the reason he was sitting in The Three Broomsticks instead of the more inconspicuous Hog’s Head Inn. Though he would have less of a chance of being noticed there, he would likely be noticed by Aberforth - the one person with even more reason to hate Draco than most anyone else.  
  
He ordered another firewhisky. It didn’t escape his notice the way the bartender slid him the drink with a look of disgust.  
  
Fine.  
  
If this was any indication of the way his year would go, then he would simply steel himself to that. He should quash his hopes for the new job at Hogwarts returning a semblance of dignity. That would only hurt him more later. No, he should be focusing on mere survival, how this job was just a job - though a damn better one than its predecessor.  
  
He would keep his mouth shut and his head down, if that’s what they wanted. He had gotten used to that. He would simply do his job to the best of his ability and pray that no one got him fired for his Dark Mark.  
  
He could do this.

  


**2 years, 3 months earlier**

Draco sat chained to a chair in the middle of Courtroom 10. He had been there for nearly three hours, hearing testimony after testimony until he could no longer distinguish words over the swelling guilt. It rung in his ears like ghostly echoes of malicious voices. Voices like Aunt Bella’s who told him he was _nothing_.  
  
It was all he heard from the witnesses too: _You’re nothing, you’re nothing, you’re nothing_. Only now, he was “nothing” for entirely different reasons.  
  
_Before_ , he had been “nothing” when he failed to kill Dumbledore. When he failed to kill _anyone_. He had been “nothing” when his father had failed the Dark Lord and the whole family had to pay. _Now_ , he was “nothing” for his very involvement in the cause he could never quite commit to.  
  
Their accusations floated through his veil of guilt at intervals, leaving labels like _Death Eater, Traitor_ , and _Enemy_ behind for him to ponder. He tried to close them out, to segment them off in his mind like he’d been taught, but after fighting so long, he was exhausted. He was broken. A chain binding his chest to the chair was all that kept him from crumpling under the weight of such heavy words.  
  
He heard the clack of a gavel as another testimony came to a close. If they had any mercy, it would be the last one. His hands ached from clutching the arms of the chair until his knuckles shone ghostly white in the dim room. Maybe the trial would end here.  
  
But if so, they’d be taking him to Azkaban. He was sure of it, and the thought sent a spike of adrenaline through him - morphing guilt into panic, regret into fear. If he went there, he would die. And despite the pain and loss he had experienced the past few years, he was not ready to die.  
  
He was only _seventeen_ for fuck’s sake.  
  
_Younger people died at the hands of the Dark Lord_ , a nasty voice whispered in the back of his mind. _That didn’t stop you_.  
  
He was so focused on his dread, body stiff with tension, that he didn’t notice the next witness until the judge announced him. “The next witness in the trial of Draco Lucius Malfoy, accused on account of treachery and known involvement with Death Eaters, is one Harry James Potter, former classmate of the defendant.”  
  
The words trickled through his ears, taking a moment to understand. Then, his head snapped up to look. _Potter?_ Why the fuck was _Potter_ here? Surely, he had ceremonies to attend, artists to pose for as they sculpted a fifty-foot statue for the Ministry in his honor. Why would he take his time coming to this miserable trial?  
  
Undoubtedly, he was testifying against him. Draco was sure of it. He ground his teeth as he looked up at The Savior of the Wizarding World with his unkempt hair and muggle jeans. Was winning the war not enough - he had to come rub it in his face that Draco had chosen wrong and make sure he went straight to Azkaban?  
  
And hell, did he not own a _comb?_ His hair was truly awful today. It would have even brought a laugh to Draco’s lips had he not been so panicked.  
  
Potter stepped up to the stand a little nervously, and somehow that pissed Draco off even more. How he could spend twenty minutes defeating the Dark Lord and then _pretend_ to be modest about everything. If Draco had been able to do that, he would have shouted it from the rooftops. He would have strutted through every important room in the Ministry - just to walk through, just to show that he was important enough that no one would question him.  
  
If he had been able to defeat the Dark Lord, it would have saved so much suffering.  
  
He glowered at Potter up on the stand. All his life, Potter had snatched away everything he ever wanted from under him. Fame. Popularity. Every winning Snitch. Even his bloody _person_ was out of Draco’s reach. And he hated that he wanted him.  
  
More than anything, he hated that Potter was seeing him like this - reduced to nothing, in a place where money and influence couldn’t save him, and chained to a _chair_ like a wild animal. Draco had spent so many years taunting him, coming up with new ways to prove himself an equal through rivalry. He didn’t want Potter to see just how pathetic he had become.  
  
Potter’s eyes landed on him, and Draco squared his shoulders. If he was going to prison regardless, then he might as well look dignified in his final moments outside.  
  
“Witness, please state your name for the court.”  
  
“Oh, um, Harry Potter,” he said with a sheepish smile, like it was ridiculous to have him say his name to a crowd who all knew him as _the most famous wizard in the world_.  
  
Frankly, it _was_ ridiculous.  
  
“And are you testifying against or in defense of the accused?”  
  
“In defense.”  
  
Draco sucked in a breath. _What?_  
  
That was impossible. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him. There was no way Potter would come here to defend him - after everything he had done. It was _unthinkable_. There had to be some mistake.  
  
“Very well. Please proceed with your testimony.”  
  
Harry took a deep breath. “Right. Well, despite having our obvious differences, there was one particular time in which Malfoy saved my life-”  
  
_No, no, no. This wasn’t happening_. Harry _fucking_ Potter wasn’t up on the witness stand excusing the atrocities he had committed, because he had simply been scared. He knew the moment Potter was going to reference, and it hadn’t been merciful. It certainly hadn’t been brave. Draco had been too weak to see Potter killed and too weak to set him free, so he had merely done _nothing_.  
  
For the first time that day, he wished he could break the silencing charm on him and speak up. Tell them that Potter was an _idiot_ , and anyone that listened to him was mental. As it was, he could merely clench his jaw harder and dig his nails deeper into the armrests.  
  
“-at the Manor that night I was captured. Mister Malfoy...err, Lucius, and Bellatrix wanted to turn me in to Voldemort-”  
  
There was a collective shudder around the room, and Draco’s skin prickled at the name. It sounded so unfamiliar, being said aloud. The man had lived in his own _home_ for months, and he had never heard anyone address him as anything other than ‘The Dark Lord.’ Hearing it now, he felt the irrational fear that it would summon him again.  
  
“Hermione had hit me with a stinging hex right before, so my face was all swollen. But it was still clearly me. Malfoy - err, Draco, that is, not Lucius - definitely would have known.”  
  
Draco’s heart tripped in his chest when Potter called him by his given name. He wasn’t sure he had ever heard it from him before.  
  
“They made him come over and try to identify me. I know he recognized me. But he didn’t say it. He told them he couldn’t tell.”  
  
Draco swallowed, chest impossibly tight. He _had_ known – would’ve known those eyes anywhere - but it didn’t matter either way. His indecision in that moment had helped neither Potter nor him, so he didn’t see why the man was so fixated on it.  
  
Guilt crushed at his lungs, and the fact that Potter was defending him now suddenly seemed too much to bear. Not to mention the niggling doubt that this feeling wasn’t only guilt. Deep beneath his layers of defensiveness and pride, a part of him held an awed, aching tenderness for this man who was testifying for him. It was unwarranted and pitiful and, frankly, _disgusting_ \- but regrettably, not insignificant.  
  
He hated this murky mixture of emotions that swelled like liquid in his throat; he was drowning, and the only one he wanted to save him was the same insufferable scarhead who landed him in this turmoil in the first place.  
  
“When Mal-... _Draco_ , hesitated, they waited to call Voldemort to the Manor. In the end, that gave us enough time to escape before he could come. Therefore, if it hadn’t been for Draco, I would have been killed that night.”  
  
He could feel all the eyes in the courtroom on him. Analyzing this new information and comparing it to what they saw in front of them. Given how he looked, they would surely distrust the praise. Some shifted their disappointed glances to Potter, and that made Draco’s stomach clench with dread.  
  
_Merlin, didn’t Potter see that in defending Draco, he was ruining his own reputation?_  
  
He leveled a furious gaze at the man who had caused him so many problems, and was surprised to see vivid green eyes staring back at him. Potter looked... _curious_. Yet distant. And it was the second thought that sent Draco over the edge. He narrowed his eyes and sneered, doing anything he could to convey his depthless ire. Fuck mercy. Fuck gratitude.  
  
Fuck Harry Potter.

  


**Present**

Draco was rubbing his forehead, trying to erase the headache pounding in his skull. He had drunk entirely too much last night, and not even a hangover potion had completely mitigated the symptoms. There was something about that last glare the bartender had given him that had sent him into a downward spiral; he didn’t drink like that often, but he knew he couldn’t give himself the opportunity again.  
  
Despite the pain, he had moved his stuff into his room at Hogwarts this morning, marveling at the bittersweet nostalgia he felt for being back within the castle walls. McGonagall had given him a suite in the dungeons, and he hadn’t decided whether it was to make him comfortable in a familiar setting or if she thought he ought not be anywhere else.  
  
He had unpacked his bags, putting away the clothes and books he had brought, but that had been all. After all, it wasn’t like he owned much these days, after being cut off from the estate. But it was enough to make the room look his own, and the green glow of the lake through his porthole window calmed him. Some minnows drifted by, casting small shadows on the chair.  
  
He had also fixed up his office, pleasantly surprised that he had been given one, even though he was only a flying instructor. It wasn’t a _large_ office by any means, but it granted him a fragment of dignity that he would not have regained otherwise.  
  
What did an office usually contain? He had never _had_ an office. After long thought, he scrawled an “office hours” sheet to pin up outside his door. He hesitated before actually writing the hours in, as he figured he’d have time to figure that out yet - and, besides, who wanted to consult the Quidditch coach about matters needing an office space? He sighed self-deprecatingly; it was an unlikely scenario to begin with.  
  
He pinned it up, but opted to leave it blank until someone asked.  
  
With a sigh, he decided it was about time to head down to the Sorting feast. It still felt so strange to be back here as an instructor and not a student. It hardly seemed like two years had passed since he was here, but at the same time, he couldn’t claim his childhood innocence either. He just hadn’t expected it to hurt - to know that he could never return to those days lounging about the common room with his friends, a bright and shining future ahead of him. Nothing would ever be the same.  
  
He ascended to the ground floor, taking a deep breath and steeling himself before pushing through the doors to the Great Hall. Kids clambered about the long tables, some glancing up at him with recognition, while others ignored him completely. He walked briskly towards the front, debating which side of the staff table to sit at before nervously taking the first open seat next to Flitwick. The man gave him a polite nod and nothing more.  
  
This was fine - everything was fine. He was used to this. Draco just had to do well in his teaching, and everything else would fall into place.  
  
Other teachers filed in, none taking the seat to his right. Trelawney trailed by with her big, moony eyes, followed by Slughorn, who pretended not to see him. The bastard had never recognized his talent in Potions, and Draco found himself wishing half-heartedly for the man’s early retirement. Then he could take the position he really wanted - though he knew he didn’t deserve it.  
  
Then McGonagall was starting announcements, and Draco was left sandwiched between a brusque charms professor and a lone, empty chair. Wonderful. The Sorting began as normal, and somehow _that_ was what felt the most bizarre of all - that things could proceed as _normal_ after everything that had happened.  
  
She was partway down the list, when he heard the double doors in back clunk open. He glanced up and froze. Hustling down the aisle without a trace of subtlety was _Harry fucking Potter_.  
  
Draco felt his jaw drop. He hadn’t seen the man in two bloody years, and then he just happened to show up at Hogwarts on his first day back? To what - ruin his already tenuous peace of mind?  
  
Potter rounded the corner of the staff table, and, based on his path, Draco had the sudden realization of why he was here. _Fuck. Shit, fuck, no_ -  
  
He must’ve been hired as a teacher too.  
  
Draco’s heart pounded in his chest, watching the messy black locks fall in Potter’s eyes as he walked. Other than the papers, he hadn’t had a chance to lay eyes on him in so long. Merlin, how had he _not looked up_ yet? He was only a few feet away.  
  
And then he did.  
  
His green eyes flared with surprise - he was always so expressive - and Draco could practically feel the confusion whirling in his mind.  
  
“Malfoy? What the hell?!”  
  
Draco nearly laughed at the greeting. He didn’t get a chance though, as McGonagall turned and tutted, sending Potter leaping into the open chair. _Such a suck-up_.  
  
“Potter,” he spat, the name feeling good and _right_ on his tongue. “Come back to sign a few autographs?” He didn’t really want to start a fight, but the words came so naturally to him, he couldn’t stop.  
  
“No! Of all the stupid-” Pottered blabbered. He seemed too startled by this chance meeting to form proper sentences. “Why are you here, Malfoy?”  
  
Draco leaned back in his chair, enjoying the argument more than he thought he would. It felt familiar in a way that the rest of his life didn’t. “Why do you think, Potter? It shouldn’t take a genius to figure it out.” He smirked, knowing it would drive Potter crazy. And still, after everything, he loved driving Potter crazy. “Can ‘The Boy Who Lived’ make a simple deduction?”  
  
“Shut _up_ ,” Harry growled. “And maybe I just don’t want to believe it. _You?_ They hired _you_ as a professor? What subject could you possibly teach?”  
  
Draco scowled. Just because it was true, didn’t mean he needed to say it. Besides, judging by Potter’s presence here and the array of teachers around them, he had to be here as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor - a much more prestigious position.  
  
“Guess you’ll just have to wait and see,” he huffed and turned away.  
  
But he couldn’t leave it at that. Not when he could _feel_ Potter’s eyes roving all over him. It made him want to yell, to strangle him, to succumb to those gross, complicated feelings deep down inside.  
  
_Hell_. He had planned to keep his mouth closed and his head down this year, and do anything it took to keep this job. He _still_ planned to.  
  
McGonagall began announcing the faculty, and he rose in a startled motion when his name was called. Fuck, everyone was looking at him now. They all thought he shouldn’t be here, that it was laughable for him to step into a position so clearly unsuited to him.  
  
She announced Potter right after, confirming his suspicions. How the hell was he supposed to _work_ with him all year? In his wildest dreams and anxieties, he had never prepared for this scenario.  
  
The feast began, and he kept his gaze fixed forward, refusing to look at Potter beside him. By the sounds he was making though, he was gobbling food like an animal. His knife scraped noisily along his plate, and he seemed to choke on his drink for a second before gulping it down.  
  
He couldn’t let himself bait Potter anymore - he _needed_ this job. It would be foolish to jeopardize that. But there was something so natural, so _exhilarating_ about arguing with him. Teasing him again felt like a missing piece of his soul had returned, and he suddenly felt whole. What good was a job when he had no life left to support?  
  
His neck prickled. Damned Potter was staring at him again, and Draco was an _idiot_ for being pleased about it.  
  
Mouth closed and head down.  
  
He needed to keep his mouth closed and head- _fuck it_.  
  
Draco looked at him again, unable to resist. Potter, caught looking, darted his eyes away with a scowl. Merlin, he was so _obvious_. It summoned a smile to Draco’s lips, and before he knew what he was doing, he was leaning forward, practically brushing his lips against Potter’s ear, just to see what he would do.  
  
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s rude to stare, Potter?”  
  
One glance told it all.  
  
Potter was beet-red and sputtering, and it was a glorious sight. It sent a thrill through him and also answered a question Draco hadn’t even dared ask himself, despite all the stalking and staring he had endured: Was Potter _interested?_  
  
In men? In… _him?_  
  
Scanning his reddened cheeks and breathlessness, Draco rather thought he might be.  
  
But rather than relief, he felt like he’d been lit up from head to toe; his nerves sparked to life and danced at the possibilities that were suddenly open to him. _Was it possible?  
  
Was it_ actually _within his power to seduce Harry Potter?_  
  
Merlin, he _hoped_ so. His heart was thundering in his chest, and it took all his strength to stand and walk away from the man seated beside him - after he had waited so long to see him again.  
  
But this was best. Potter couldn’t know. This obsession was too unwieldy, it ran too deep. If he stayed, it would all show on his face; he would have to act disinterested. That was how seduction worked, wasn’t it? _Push and pull_.  
  
Push and pull.  
  
Fuck, he had thought this would be a quiet year, but with _Harry Potter_ roaming the castle, he knew there was no chance of his life ever being quiet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading chapter 1! Like I mentioned in the end notes of my TNFI epilogue, I will not be updating this story on a weekly basis like before, but I'll try to update every 2 or 3 weeks (and maybe go back to weekly if I build up enough of a head start). I've also had a lot of fun writing shorter pieces the past few weeks, so I want to leave time for myself to work on these and refresh my interest in continuing. (If you haven't checked my other stuff out - please do! I've got some ferret!Draco, some crack with Ron, some scooby-doo inspired shenanigans, a literal rewrite of The Raven along Drarry themes, and a more serious piece about Professor Burbage haunting Draco.)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, and I'll see you soon for chapter 2!  
> xoxo


	2. Provoking Harry Potter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w: PTSD regarding wartime torture; panic attack; masturbation

Okay, so perhaps Potter wasn’t that interested. After all, he had done his best to avoid Draco at every subsequent meal, proving that the Sorting feast had merely been a fluke. He had even taken to dodging him in the halls – turning around and dashing in the other direction whenever he caught sight of him.  
  
Fine. That was fine. It had been foolish of Draco to even consider the alternative, and he had been planning to keep his head down this year anyway – Potter was just doing him a favor by making it easier for him.  
  
Though, if he was being honest with himself (which he rarely was), he would admit that it stung.  
  
What had happened to that raw, savage magnetism that drew them together again and again? Potter had surely felt it yesterday at dinner – he _had_ to have. When their eyes had locked for the first time in two years, Draco was surprised goblets hadn’t been knocked over in a burst of wild magic.  
  
And yet he was _ignoring_ him. Like it wasn’t hard at all – like it was something he could simply _choose_ to do. Well, Draco had _chosen_ to ignore him many times in his life as well, for all the fucking good that did. He always ended up back where he started: absolute obsession.  
  
Draco glanced over at Potter, catching his grimace as Slughorn clapped him jovially on the shoulder. In his opinion, if Potter felt uncomfortable, then he deserved every bloody second of it. When he’d sat with Longbottom and his wife this morning, that had been understandable – they were friends after all – but sitting between Slughorn and _Trelawney_ in order to get away from him…that was simply an insult.  
  
He turned back to his food with a scowl. There had to be some way to get Potter’s attention – over the years, he’d become something of a master at it. Even if he was laying low, that didn’t mean he couldn’t entertain himself a bit at the same time.  
  
It was simply a matter of planning. 

  


_Clack, clack, clack._  
  
The cabinet in Potter’s classroom was rattling, and Draco was beginning to think that this was a bad idea. Maybe, just _maybe_ , there were wiser pranks he could play that didn’t involve stealing a boggart from Potter in the dead of night.  
  
Draco crept closer to the cabinet, casting muffling charms so it wouldn’t alert anyone. Technically speaking, even though he was a teacher, he still wasn’t supposed to be wandering around the castle without a patrolling shift. It would look suspicious if he was caught – and suspicion was something he had to avoid at all costs, given the circumstances. But, as usual, his desire to one-up Potter eclipsed even the barest of common sense.  
  
“ _Alohomora_ ,” he cast, and the cabinet lock popped open. Draco braced his nerves for what was to come.  
  
A pallid white hand slid between the doors and forced them open.  
  
Draco froze. It wasn’t the skeletal hand of the Dark Lord that he had expected.  
  
The sunken, wan face of a girl came into view. Young, maybe twelve. Her unseeing eyes stared past him, and he was electrified with terror when he remembered exactly who she was. How those memories shook him a way that was deeper.  
  
Her hand dropped from the door, and for a moment, he was terrified she’d come after him. What happened was worse. She merely toppled to the ground, the weight of her body pushing open the doors as she fell. The resounding _thump_ rang across the room, and Draco found himself finally moving – but _back_ ; back instead of forward.  
  
His legs felt like spindly matchsticks beneath him, and his wand arm shuddered like a dancing flame. “ _R-riddikulus_ ,” he tried. The words came out scratchy, dry.  
  
Draco cleared his throat and desperately tried to focus. _She wasn’t real. She wasn’t here. The past was dead_.  
  
But the past certainly didn’t _feel_ dead – if anything, the long shadows of the room were dragging him down to darker times; the cabinet in front of him now loomed like a different cabinet he had spent so much time overshadowed by.  
  
“ _Riddik…ulus_.” Again, nothing.  
  
You couldn’t banish a boggart without looking at it.  
  
Insides screaming, Draco aimed his wand at the girl and made his eyes follow. Her face was just as terrified and broken as he remembered. And as soon as he acknowledged that, all the other details came rushing back.  
  
How his father had dragged him out on that raid.  
  
How the Muggleborns had just “gotten in the way.”  
  
How Voldemort had ordered him to torture her or be tortured himself.  
  
_She had cried_ , he remembered. She had cried and begged and clung to his legs for mercy as he Occluded and Occluded and Occluded-… But nothing could block out the look in her eyes when her body simply _stopped_. One moment, she had been thrashing in pain, fingers scrabbling like cornered spiders, and then… _nothing_.  
  
Nothing.  
  
He didn’t even know if she had _died_ , or simply been broken. He didn’t _want_ to know. And yet, the fear of what he had possibly inflicted sung like ice in his veins. It hit him like a punch in the stomach, and a wave of bile rose in his throat.  
  
_How had he thought that any of this would be easy?_ He had forgotten that, since third year, he had faced things actually worth fearing.  
  
_What would he do if he couldn’t beat it?_ Potter would find him comatose and pathetic on his classroom floor - that’s _what_. And it was that thought more than anything that made him level his wand once more and focus.  
  
“ _Riddikulus_.”  
  
This time, the spell finally took, and her body froze into one of those gaudy Grecian statues that littered the Manor’s gardens. It was the best he could manage at the moment.  
  
Draco sank to the ground next to it, his wand clattering on the floor. He sighed in relief first, then let the wave of anxiety crest and spill warm tears down his cheeks.  
  
_I can get through this.  
  
I can get through this.  
  
I can get through this._  
  
It took a long time, but when the tears slowed and dried, he picked up the statue and his wand and left the room. 

  


The boggart clearly hadn’t been enough. Even after what Draco had considered a grand gesture – stealing Potter’s boggart so he looked like a fool when he tried to give his _boggart lesson_ – the man still stumbled blindly through his day-to-day routine, not even seeming to realize that someone was pranking him. After all, who would dare toy with _The Boy Who Lived?_  
  
As such, Potter still hadn’t acknowledged him – hadn’t so much as _looked_ at him, since that first day – and it was setting his teeth on edge.  
  
Draco needed a better plan.  
  
After dinner, he went down to his office and flopped into his chair. _What was something Potter wouldn’t be able to ignore?_ His eyes scanned the sparse piles of books and quills on his desk – he really needed to spruce the place up before someone came to visit. It was the first office he’d ever had for his own, after all.  
  
At length, his eyes fell upon today’s copy of the _Prophet_ , which he had finished at breakfast this morning. Skeeter’s headline screamed at him from the front page, 

" **INTERNATIONAL QUIDDITCH STAR, VIKTOR KRUM, CAUGHT WEARING LAST SEASON’S BREECHES.** "

His eyes narrowed.

Skeeter… _That was it_.

He scrambled through his stack of books, then – not finding what he was after – summoned it from his room. He _hoped_ he had brought it.

After several long seconds of waiting, a book zoomed into his grip from the hallway. _The Boy Who Lived: Loves, Lies, and Loneliness_ by Rita Skeeter. If anything was going to drive Potter up the wall, it was this.

But what to do with it? He could simply transfigure a bunch of copies of it for Potter’s office. That would be fun. But it lacked originality - he was better than that. What else could he do?

Draco flipped idly through the book. He had read it, of course, when it had come out. It may have felt a bit pitiful to set down at the register in Flourish and Blotts – he distinctly remembered purchasing a whole stack of books on that day to divert attention from that particular title – but he hadn’t been able to resist.

He knew most of it was lies ( _I mean_ , Granger - _really?_ Her and Potter had about as much chemistry as Draco and a hippogriff), but that had only served to make it funnier. As he read it, he had imagined the growing look of outrage on Potter’s face with each subsequent section.

And then he had, of course, gone through his daily ritual of Occluding and trying to forget about Potter’s face entirely.

As it stood, the only sections of the book he had found enlightening were the parts involving Cedric Diggory and then Harry’s childhood, which he knew admittedly little about. The part about Diggory was curious, not because he knew one way or another whether Potter _had_ really liked him – at the time, Draco certainly hadn’t noticed anything, but if he delved really deeply into his memories, he seemed to recall Potter staring at the boy a fair bit. Which made his heart twinge in a conflicted sort of way.

But that wasn’t the point – it was the mere _possibility_ that Potter might like blokes that intrigued him, and more so, that others had noticed it as well.

Even if it was Skeeter, he felt that any external validation on this particular issue could be trusted more than his own hopelessly delusional perspective. Potter could punch him in the face, and Draco would still be looking for clues of attraction in the act. _Had_ , in fact.

He smiled a bit sadly. Well that was something amusing he could do, couldn’t he? Add his own delusions to this book? He doubted that Potter would read it anyway - out of principle - and if he did, then maybe it’d serve as that push Draco wasn’t willing to take on his own. Merlin knew he’d been nursing these inappropriate feelings for enough years as it was.

Flipping to the relationships section, he paged past the part on Ginevra. His heart clenched pitifully when he realized that Potter was, in all likelihood, _still_ with the Weaslette. He had never heard anything to the contrary anyway.

So all this was pointless anyway.

Draco quashed the disappointment that threatened to spill out of him. _No, this was a good thing_. If Potter was single, Draco wouldn’t be able to focus on anything but seducing him – something he was bound to fail spectacularly at, and likely lose both his job and remaining dignity in the process. This way should be relieving - he could treat it all as a joke, the _prank_ it was meant to be.

He was provoking Potter because it was familiar. That was all. An almost decade-long crush didn’t even factor into it.

Draco loaded some parchment into his typewriter and keyed in a header: “ _Lions and Snakes_.” That was good. Euphemistic and vague, like Skeeter herself.

He continued, fingers flying across the keys as inspiration struck. “ _Or, in other words, the year pure, wonderful, Boy-Who-Lived Savior, Harry Potter, spent stalking Draco Malfoy. From the moment they met, Potter nursed a fiery passion for the handsome, pureblood Slytherin that manifested itself in high-strung Quidditch matches and poorly-constructed comebacks which he used to get the other boy’s attention._

 _‘Boys will be boys’ or mounting sexual tension at Hogwarts?_ ”

He smirked. It would really rile Potter if he made it seem like the hero himself was lusting after _him_. Even though it was quite actually the other way around.

He liked it though – the thought of it. Not being the one to try so bloody hard all the time for the reward of resounding apathy, a frown in his direction if he was lucky. Draco decided that, for once, he would indulge his fantasies. Just for a moment.

He could always burn it later.

“ _By sixth year, Potter was rumored to be desperately in love with Malfoy, following him around with puppy-dog eyes at all hours – day and night. It is said that he even broke down and begged Malfoy to fuck him; anything to release him from the torment of his own, unrequited feelings. He even offered himself as a personal servant to Malfoy, citing lust so deep, it kept him up pining at night and rubbing himself raw_ -”

Quite irrepressibly, Draco started imagining it: Potter, _desperate_. How many nights had he lain awake in the Slytherin dorms, picturing the same exact thing? How many times had he wished – even _prayed_ – for some unholy magical artifact that would let him see into Gryffindor tower at the inner workings of Potter’s life.

He cleared his throat and spelled the door all the way shut.

“ _Malfoy, being the charming gentleman he was, refused the advances on multiple accounts. However, Potter didn’t stop. He followed Malfoy through the castle every day, his begging giving way to silent pleas as he stalked him even into the prefect’s bathroom._

 _In one such circumstance, he even fell to his knees for Malfoy on the dirty bathroom floor, clutching at his trousers with such clear desire that the young man simply didn’t have the heart to push him away. Instead, he leaned back against the door and watched as Potter scrambled to open his trousers and take him into his mouth_ -”

Draco let out a groan at the thought, then immediately snapped back to reality. _What was he doing?_ What was he _writing?_

He couldn’t just-… And in his _office_ , no less.

But even without looking, he could feel that he was hard – harder than he had any right to be while thinking of a colleague and boyhood rival. He bit his lip, weighing his options.

Even with his personal chambers not too far from his office, he risked running into students, which was completely out of the question. And speaking of students, they could stop by his office at any time as well – though he sincerely doubted they would. Who needed to talk to the flight instructor after hours? But the longer he sat here with a boner, the higher the chances of someone happening upon him, and-

He decided it was best to just take care of this here and now.

Draco cast another locking charm on the door, as well as several silencing spells. He turned back to the page.

“… _watched as Potter scrambled to open his trousers and take him into his mouth. His green eyes flashed with the desire to prove himself to Malfoy, to be good enough that he might swallow his pride and come crawling back for more, and quite overcome by the spectacle, Malfoy couldn’t help but clutching a fistful of Potter’s wild hair to steady himself_.”

His hand fell to his crotch, slipping beneath the fabric of his pants to grip himself. Hell, this was wrong on so many levels, but the _dirtiness_ of it only seemed to increase his latent desire.

“ _Potter began to moan wantonly around him, bobbing his head quickly and messily. After holding back for so long, he finally broke and reached for his own cock as Malfoy began to_ -…”

Draco’s breath stuttered, and he abandoned his typing for sheer imagination.

 _Potter’s mouth, hot around him. Potter’s hands, gripping his hips. Potter’s eyes, closed in concentration, then opening - flicking up at his face with unbearable lust_ -

He came in a rush all over his fist.

Heaving a sigh in between panting breaths, he sagged back in his chair, muttering cleaning charms. _What was he doing?_ He was supposed to be driving Potter mental – not _himself_.

After several minutes, he glanced down at the page he had typed. He seriously considered burning it. But then, after rereading several times, he decided that it was actually the perfect thing to unsettle Potter. He remembered the man’s blush from the night of the Sorting Feast and desperately wished to summon such a beautiful expression to his face once more.

He set his hands on the keys and picked up where he left off.

  


Once again, the aftermath of Draco’s pranks was as fleeting as it was underwhelming. Potter _still_ didn’t seem to realize that he was being had – and if he did, then he certainly wasn’t following the right venues to resolve the matter himself.  
  
Draco hadn’t even heard anyone _talking_ about the book prank, which was disappointing after all the effort he had spent on transfiguring Potter’s collection into the Skeeter one, as well as multiplying his _own_ edited copy with a _geminio_ charm. It was impressive spellwork – _anyone_ would say so – which he told himself was the main reason he was so pissed off at the situation.  
  
Regardless. Back to the drawing board - again.  
  
His next idea didn’t come to him until he stumbled upon Peeves tormenting several first years in the first floor corridor. He was showering them with a maelstrom of parchment that seemed to have spilled from one girl’s bag, and it wasn’t until after Draco had spelled it all back to rights that he realized the opportunity.  
  
“Peeves,” he said carefully, once the students had hurried off. “I’m frankly surprised that you’re here doing _this_ right now, given the news going around the castle.”  
  
The poltergeist swooped by him with a cackle. “ _Ickle whiny Malfoy boy, nothing but the Dark Lord’s toy!_ ”  
  
Malfoy clenched his jaw to keep from snapping back. He had little patience for the insults, but he had to make this seem like Peeves’ idea for it to work.  
  
“I’m really not the one you should be singing about – honestly. Everyone will think you’re behind on the rumors.”  
  
Peeves couldn’t help but stall midair in curiosity. “ _What_ rumors?”  
  
Draco fought down a smile in order to keep his face impassive. “Oh, surely you know? The ones about Potter.”  
  
Now he had the ghost’s attention.  
  
“Potter? What about Potter? He open another chamber for a huge snakey-wakey?”  
  
Draco forced a laugh. “No, of course not. It’s just…I mean, surely you’ve heard? He’s doing a terrible job as a professor! McGonagall might even fire him, he’s doing so poorly. Everyone’s complaining about it.”  
  
Peeves’ eyes got a malicious gleam. “Potter the rotter! Potter the rotter!” He shot away towards the ceiling, cackling and coming up with lyrics. “His teaching is a bother? His teaching makes us totter…ing fools! No, hmm. His teaching is like _slaughter!_ ”  
  
After several more minutes of workshopping, he swept out of the corridor with his finished chant: “ _Potter the rotter! His teaching is like slaughter! We won’t earn the O.W.L.S. we ought ter!_ ”  
  
Only once he was gone did Draco finally break into a grin. If there was something no one had the strength to ignore, it was Peeves’ cruel song parodies.  
  
He headed to the pitch for a quick fly before dinner. 

  


Draco hadn’t meant to land behind Potter and start an argument – he really hadn’t – but there was something about the ex-hero’s self-pitying body language that drew him there and made him do just that.  
  
So yes, he might have started this with his initial approach, but the subsequent argument was entirely on Potter’s shoulders. He had been rising so well to Draco’s bait until-…well, until – just like _that_ – he stopped. Potter had squared his shoulders and diffused his challenges, and then simply _looked away_.  
  
Potter _never_ looked away. It wasn’t like him – it wasn’t _in his blood_. Something was seriously wrong here, and Draco was willing to detonate a lifetime’s worth of precautionary knowhow in order to get things back on track.  
  
“And the books?” Potter was saying. “What the fuck were you thinking?! You think I like being reminded of all the slander about me in the news?”  
  
Draco felt his face twisting in a sneer. If _slander_ was all that he was worried about, he clearly hadn’t read Draco’s additions. Which, while he had hoped for that in the beginning, now only served to piss him off further.  
  
“Obviously not. That was kind of the point.”  
  
Potter lurched forward a step, jaw hardening, eyes flashing. Some sick part of Draco liked it though – liked it and wanted to make him mad enough to hit him; at least then he could feel some physical proof of this maddening tension.  
  
But Potter started speaking again instead. “Merlin, I was such an idiot to think that you’d have changed. You’re still the same evil, selfish prat you were back in school! You-”  
  
His hand twitched towards his wand, and Draco acted instinctively. He disarmed Potter with a wordless incantation, marveling, as the famed holly wand sung across the grass, just how easy it had been.  
  
Then his words started to sink in.  
  
“You’re so predictable, Potter.” His answers were on autopilot, which, when he was so worked up like this, was probably a bad idea. Far too revealing. “Still thinking everything is black and white, and no one outside of Gryffindor is worth your while.”  
  
He found himself pressing his wand to Potter’s sternum, his hand somehow steady amidst this rush of adrenaline.  
  
_Look at me, dammit_.  
  
Potter’s eyes finally flicked from the wand up to meet his. They were shocked and narrowed and furious.  
  
Draco knew he should step away, that he was saying too much with both his words and his eyes – and if anyone was watching this, he’d get fired in a heartbeat. But he simply couldn’t drag himself away. That _magnetism_ that he had described - well, it was in full force, and he couldn’t fathom attempting to break it. Or even circumnavigating it like Potter had done.  
  
“Why? You want to know _why_ I did it?” He leaned closer, forcing his eyes to stay locked on Potter’s, lest they drop traitorously to his lips. He meant to say something clever, something scathing, like he was usually so capable of.  
  
Instead, he told the truth.  
  
“I don’t do well with being ignored.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyoooo! It's my birthday today, but I decided to give _you all_ the gift of another chapter!
> 
> So yeah, some snippets of Draco writing his sneaky Skeeter parody this time. In the comments of TNFI last time, someone wrote that it was like Draco writing his own fanfiction of them, which I found hilarious (and pretty true)! Hope you're all enjoying his perspective so far. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading! See you in another 2-3 weeks for chapter 3! :)  
> xoxo


	3. Of Moping and Cursed Quaffles

Potter was a fucking idiot – that much was abundantly clear. That he had first ignored him, then pulled his wand on him with some didactic speech on the unchanging evil of Draco’s character, and then had the _audacity_ to look so earnestly confused at his response – it was unbelievable.  
  
What the hell did Potter _think_ he had meant? He hadn’t even wanted to say what he _had_ let slip; it was so pathetically obvious. And yet, Potter kept standing there with his too-open expression and his too-soft green eyes, eyes not meant for _him_ , and it had torn apart that hole in his chest where his heart used to be.  
  
And so, Draco had done what he did best – he had closed off his mind and told Potter off in his coldest, most detached voice. It didn’t matter if he regretted it – even as it was happening – it was done, and that was that.  
  
So really, it was his annoyance at Potter and _not_ his lingering sense of self-disappointment that had him slumped over a table in the back of the library while the world went on around him. And it certainly wasn’t his latent pitifulness that caused Hannah Abbott – or rather, Hannah Longbottom, now – to sit down at his table with a shy chuckle and a greeting of, “Oh no, who’s stuck on your mind?”  
  
He glanced up with surprise. After all, he was fairly sure that the two of them had never even spoken back in school, while him and her husband had most _definitely_ spoken – all insults and bullying that Draco would much rather forget.  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
She smiled, and it was a bit of a wry look. _Huh. He hadn’t known Hufflepuffs had it in them to be_ wry.  
  
“I’ve hidden in the back of the library before when I was pining and needed a break. You’ve got that distinct look about you today.”  
  
“Well, that’s presumptuous,” he snapped, before he could stop himself. Then, he looked up to see the smile sliding from her face, and he realized with trepidation that she very well might be the only one to show him any kindness here. He couldn’t take that for granted. Not anymore.  
  
“Though, not altogether inaccurate,” he rushed to admit. Heat bloomed across his face, but this time, he let it. He decided that if he used vulnerability as self-punishment for every time he was a dick to someone, it would certainly discourage him from doing so in the future.  
  
Hannah snorted lightly. “Would it be _presumptuous_ to ask who it is?”  
  
Surprising himself, Draco let out a short, tentative laugh at her joke. She looked a little shocked as well, though not in a bad way. “Yes. Yes, it would,” he said with a shy, somewhat wry smile of his own.  
  
“Well, that’s too bad – I was going to give you some free advice.”  
  
He sat up a bit, propping his chin on his palm and looked at her properly. “Good heavens, whatever would compel you to do that? If it’s worth saying, it’s worth paying for – that’s what I always say.”  
  
“You’re funny. I like that – I don’t remember you being funny in school.”  
  
“You’re right; I wasn’t funny. Took me forever to realize though, since cronies were always laughing at my jokes anyway.” He raised an eyebrow at her, genuinely curious by her honesty. “Why are you talking to me, Hannah?”  
  
Her mouth twitched into a small smile, though she looked earnest as she responded. “Well, I wasn’t planning to, but you looked right pathetic over here, and I have a weakness for strays. You look much less intimidating without your trademark posture and glare.”  
  
He winced, though it was fair. And despite himself, he felt charmed enough by her treating him like a normal former classmate and not some odious monster, that he felt himself relaxing into casual humor himself.  
  
“I’m not always glaring! Only like… _eighty_ percent of the time. And more to the other point – you can’t honestly call Longbottom a stray anymore; he’s been popular since seventh year. Much to my younger self’s chagrin…”  
  
Hannah barked a laugh. “No, you’re right. He does have quite the fan club, doesn’t he? Now, I just indulge him when he brings some twiggy tree in from the cold and convinces me it can’t survive unless we replant it in our home.”  
  
Draco shook his head in amusement. “Spare me. That might be the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard.”  
  
She held his eyes for a long moment, considering him. Then, seeming to find an answer, she stood. “Well, I’m headed to dinner. Want to come? Neville’s off at an exotic plants shop this evening, so I wouldn’t mind the company.”  
  
Draco blinked in surprise. “Y-yeah, sure.”  
  
_Had he just made a friend? A non-Slytherin friend?_  
  
He gathered his things, aiming his smile at his stack of books and trying not embarrass himself. Teaching might not end up so terrible after all. 

  


Despite Hannah’s unsolicited relationship advice, Draco spent the greater part of his weekend feeling sorry for himself, and only a small portion of time practicing Quidditch moves to show to his classes. He’d be fine though – Quidditch was the least of his worries. One of the jobs he’d had after Hogwarts had seen to that.  
  
But after everything, he was pleasantly surprised to find that he still enjoyed flying. Sitting up on a broom in the sky, gazing across the green of the pitch and the dense foliage of the Forbidden Forest – really, there was nothing like it. And the air, while crisp, still had yet to settle into those bitterly cold Scottish overtones.  
  
Something felt so freeing about the open air. Perhaps, it was due to the stark contrast between this sky and the many forms of prison he’d endured so far in his life. He remembered the first time he had noticed it, how, in sixth year, his initial excitement had bled into suffering – how the stone walls had closed around him like a vise, and Hogwarts had become his first real prison.  
  
And once he had noticed _that_ , it was all he could see wherever life shuffled him next. The following year, it had been the Manor – with the Dark Lord pacing the floors. Then the Wizengamot. Then the Manor again. Then all the pitiful jobs that he’d barely managed to obtain in order to escape his former home.  
  
And now, now he was back _here_. The memories of this place were already closing in on him, but only time would tell whether it would become his prison again or not.  
  
He exhaled, driving every ounce of breath from his lungs before filling them again to bursting. In the face of such a dizzying expanse of world before him, he couldn’t help but feel his thoughts stripped down to honesty. He was terrified. Terrified that Hogwarts – the only place to offer him any kindness or respite following the war – wouldn’t be enough to drive the claustrophobia from his mind. That he was too fucked up to fit in anywhere. That if he couldn’t make it work here, there was nowhere left for him to go. 

  


Draco had never expected that, after all this time trying to get his attention, Potter choosing to sit and talk with him at breakfast would leave him _more_ frustrated than he had already been. It wasn’t fair – life had that particular way of only giving him what he wanted when it was tainted by some darker aspiration.  
  
Potter had sat with him out of confusion and pity, and that was just frankly unacceptable.  
  
Did he honestly believe that he would get anywhere with this pacifist shtick he had picked up somewhere in the past two years? It muted and dulled him in a way that infuriated Draco, not only because he wasn’t living up the image in his head – the boy he remembered so clearly from school – but also because Potter looked so bloody _miserable_ all the time.  
  
And if the Savior of the Wizarding World looked miserable, then what hope was there for the sorry bastards like him?  
  
No. He would not accept Potter’s play at pity, and he would not talk to him either until he’d wiped that false passivity from his face. He would engage with Draco as equals, or simply not at all. 

  


He had decided all that, he really had – but then, of course, he received a new and fascinating snippet of information from Hannah that afternoon when she found him moping in the library.  
  
“Oh no! You must not have taken my advice.”  
  
Draco glanced up and rolled his eyes at her. “What.”  
  
“You’re looking all woebegone again! Did she send you a Howler?”  
  
“Not a Howler, not a she,” he mumbled without thinking. Then, he immediately gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. _Stupid, that was stupid_.  
  
He had been so careful-  
  
“Oh, so you’re gay then?” The way she asked – so curious, so free of judgment – made him blink his eyes back open. “I have some news that might interest you then.”  
  
“You…you don’t mind?” It came out sounding more than a little bewildered. After all, he’d been _disinherited_ for such a seemingly simple detail.  
  
She gave him a lopsided grin. “Why would I mind? _I’m_ not trying to sleep with you.”  
  
He coughed a little at the bluntness, and felt a flush rising to his face. “Yes...well…” he glanced around the room for inspiration, “Well, it’s not like everyone thinks of it that way, unfortunately.” His eyes flickered back to Hannah to find her looking at him with a softer expression, like she’d just figured something out about him. He wasn’t sure he liked it.  
  
“You said there was news?” he asked to hide his discomfort.  
  
“Oh. Right.” She fell into the opposite chair to face him. “Harry was asking about you at lunch today.”  
  
_What? Why would she know_ … He raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat in a way he hoped looked more casual than telling. “And? What did he want?”  
  
“Well, let’s just say he seemed quite interested in how you’re handling your classes.”  
  
Draco frowned. “I recall some students mentioning that today actually. Saying he’d been asking around about my teaching methods or some rot. If he’s so convinced I’m doing Dark magic on quaffles or something, then he should come by and say that to my face.”  
  
Hannah had been reading his expression with amusement, and he only hoped she couldn’t see through his bravado too easily. “Hmm, I don’t think he believes _that_. Though, he might very well say so in order to bring you up in conversation a few more times.”  
  
She said it offhandedly, like it wasn’t the single most exciting piece of news he’d ever heard. _Potter talked of him…often?_  
  
“What else?” He swallowed with embarrassment at how suddenly desperate he sounded. “What else did he say?”  
  
She analyzed his face a bit more, seeming to find something that pleased her, as she broke into a wide smile. “Well, after Harry had brought you up several times, Ginny didn’t seem too pleased about the turn in conversation, so she essentially told him to ‘fuck off and go sit in on one of your classes’ – if you’ll pardon my language.”  
  
Draco felt a delirious grin stretch across his face. “ _Did_ she now?” The book he’d been pretending to read when she arrived lay totally abandoned now. “And what did _he_ say?”  
  
Hannah grinned right back. “He didn’t really respond to it much, just grumbled that she was being ridiculous and ‘as bad as Ron and Hermione about it,’ and that ‘he’s definitely _not_ obsessed,’ whatever that means.”  
  
His heart was stuttering in his chest. This was too much to even _process_. First off – Potter had talked about him enough to piss off his friends and make it a “thing” that they nagged him about? And second – even his _girlfriend_ knew about this and felt threatened enough to start a fight about it? He knew it was petty (and probably not the best morally either), but his heart soared at the thought.  
  
And then there was that last word: _obsessed. Was_ he? Even if it was only a fraction of the obsession Draco had for him, it made him feel tingly, like he’d pulled out of a successful spiral dive on the pitch.  
  
“And what do you think?” he demanded.  
  
“About what?”  
  
_Oh Hannah – she even had the nerve to play coy about it, with that knowing grin on her face. She really should’ve been a Slytherin._  
  
“Do you think he is? Er… _obsessed_ , that is?” He bit his lip to cut off any more humiliating questions.  
  
But she laughed at his boldness. “I can’t say. You’ll have to figure that out on your own, loverboy.” 

  


Alright, he _might_ have raced up to North tower to Potter’s office after hearing that – he’d certainly had more dignified moments. But as he approached, he managed to school his overwhelming smugness into a pretense of general glee before knocking. It wouldn’t do to be _cocky_ , after all – this could all end up being some terrible misinterpretation that left him sorely disappointed for months yet to come.  
  
“Come in!” Potter called from inside. He sounded far more jovial than Draco had ever had cause to hear him.  
  
He swung open the door and watched the initial shock fall to disgust on Potter’s face. “Malfoy. What are you doing here?” His voice was flat – completely changed from his previous tone – but it was the one he was used to hearing.  
  
That was fine. Draco had the upper hand – he knew more than he had before; he knew Potter was _interested_. The thought alone drove him to saunter carelessly into the room, ignoring the man’s look of outrage, and scan the bookshelves for his handiwork.  
  
It looked like Potter had spelled away all the Skeeter books, which was _most_ unfortunate.  
  
“What, I can’t make a social call? Surely, someone’s come to visit The Boy Who Lived at some point in his life,” he teased. In a lot of ways, Potter was like him – he was proud; therefore, he wouldn’t crack easily to show his true thoughts. He’d need some working.  
  
“Yeah, I have friends, Malfoy. You’re just not one of them. What do you want?”  
  
_Good thing I don’t want to be friends_ , he thought distractedly, picking up a Puddlemere United paperweight and inspecting it, because he was sure Potter hated it when he touched his things. He made sure to touch _lots_ of things.  
  
Then, in his tactile exploration, his eyes landed on the copy of _The Boy Who Lived: Loves, Lies and Loneliness_ sitting on Potter’s desk – just out there in the open. _Yes! So there’d been one left after all_. He grinned, unable to help himself, as he snatched it up.  
  
“I heard an interesting rumor today.” He flipped through the pages lazily, opening it to the section he had added. It really had been an inspired prank idea – even if Potter hadn’t discovered it yet. A veritable stroke of genius. He hoped Potter would notice soon.  
  
“Oh? And what was that?” Potter’s voice was hard, but it did a bad job hiding his underlying curiosity.  
  
_Good. This was all going swimmingly so far_.  
  
He reread a section of “Lions and Snakes,” feeling more than a bit smug having his dirty prose in the same room as the one it was about. Draco took his time pondering it, knowing another similarity between him and Potter was that the man hated being ignored. He ignored him for a full count of ten before continuing.  
  
“See, a little birdie told me that you’re interested in my class. My…what did they say?” He paused, looking to the sky and briefly considering the success he could have had attending the Wizarding Academy of Dramatic Arts, “Oh right. You want to know my _teaching methods_.”  
  
He had put every ounce of innuendo he possessed into those last two words and was pleasantly rewarded by a ripe, vermilion flush spreading over Potter’s face. _Yes, this was what he was after. That exact look_.  
  
“I think you’re putting too much stock in bad rumors,” the man managed after several false starts.  
  
Oh, his embarrassment was _delicious_. Draco might very well be addicted.  
  
“Yes,” he countered, excitement speeding up his tone, “that’s _exactly_ what _I_ was thinking. So I decided to check with Hannah.” There was no reason to inform him that Hannah had been the one to bring it to his attention in the first place – he had nearly forgotten the students’ rumors by that point already.  
  
Potter froze his fidgeting, clearly not expecting that. Draco had him trapped. He surely knew that if Draco had talked to Hannah, then he might know about their outing to Hogsmeade – and their subsequent conversations.  
  
He tamped down his gloating, paging through the Skeeter book again – trying to draw as much attention to it as possible without saying anything outright. “And, from what I found out,” he murmured, “you seem _more_ than a little interested.”  
  
Potter was silent for a long time, and, as such, it was quiet enough for him to hear the man swallowing. “What did she say?” he asked at last. Warily, like he didn’t want to give away anything that wasn’t already known and ashamed of whatever was. His face was doing that brooding thing where his eyebrows drew together and made him look both intimidating and also a bit like a kicked crup.  
  
Draco looked up from the book, where he’d been waiting him out. “Oh, I’m glad you asked. She said something about your desire to watch me teach – to ‘sit in on some of my classes.’” He snapped the book shut and watched Potter jump. He smiled. “The word ‘obsessive’ may or may not have been mentioned.”  
  
Draco hadn’t thought it possible for Potter’s cheeks to grow any brighter, but to his delight, they did just that. And he laughed outright when Potter glanced away, unable to maintain the heated eye contact.  
  
“That’s not how it happened… I’m- I’m just sure you look ridiculous as a flight instructor, and thought it’d be funny to see it!”  
  
_So Potter_ had _been thinking about him_. He hid the rapid thumping of his heart with a coolly raised eyebrow.  
  
“Then by all means, Potter. Come _see_.” He placed the book in front of Potter, trying not to grin like a loon at the things the man had admitted – both with his words and otherwise. _Push and pull, Draco, push and pull_.  
  
He leaned in closer, unable to help himself, as he wanted to see that beautiful blush up close. “Class starts at three.”

  


Okay, so he had lied, class really didn’t start until three _thirty_. But Potter, being a common ruffian, was bound to show up late out of spite, so Draco had afforded a half hour window to account for that. Really, it was a basic event-planning trick – one he’d used on Pansy many times in the past.  
  
But Potter didn’t seem to appreciate Draco’s subtle manipulations when he arrived. By the look on his face when he stormed across the green in an attempt to cut Draco off before reaching his students, he seemed to actually _loathe_ the fact that he’d missed out on his chance for a dramatic late entrance. And from the kids’ mutterings, it appeared that he’d also heard about the scrimmage promises Draco had tossed out last week when he’d been annoyed Potter was ignoring him.  
  
For which, he held no regrets – he just didn’t think he’d be able to convince him here so _soon_.  
  
Draco started his lesson while a miffed Potter stormed off – once again – to change, and he tried his best to purge thoughts of _that_ from his mind in order to focus on keeping his students in the air. Several had choppy starts, and he had to help a few of the boys with lift-off and encourage one of the meeker girls to float higher than two feet off the ground. There were always a few in each class that couldn’t handle heights.  
  
“Just form a loose circle and fly around the pitch,” he called to the class, landing to help Jimmy – the last student having issues getting up in the air. He sighed. “And what seems to be the issue this time, Mister Hathburn?” Using his surname, of course, was a bit of exasperated humor at this point. He found it stuffy to do so all the time – like he was purporting himself as a mini McGonagall.  
  
The boy jumped with the broom in his grip several times, eyes squeezed shut in concentration, but couldn’t seem to stay up.  
  
“Okay, okay. Hold up,” Draco said, examining the broom with a frown. “Is this a Cleansweep Five?”  
  
The boy nodded hesitantly, and Draco sighed again. “That’s probably your issue – this thing is ancient.”  
  
The students, of course, had the option to bring a broom from home; though, most used the school’s ready supply of Nimbus 2001s, as they were of excellent quality and had held up over time. But on rare occasion, as he had been warned by Hooch following his job acceptance, a student brought in a broom that was actually _worse_ than the ones the school had. There was no good way of breaking that to a kid though.  
  
“Here, I’m going to go grab you one of the Nimbus 2001s from the storage room. You can try it out and see if it works any better for you.”  
  
He was sure to say it casually, like it wasn’t a big deal – and to his relief, Jimmy just nodded, seeming eager to end this embarrassing spectacle.  
  
Right. He set off towards the locker rooms, so lost in thought about how to kindly discourage parents from sending their kids to school with brooms from the 1950s that he had momentarily forgotten about Potter until he heard a sharp yelp upon entering the Quidditch shed.  
  
His head snapped up in surprise, and – _Merlin, help him_ – Potter was _shirtless_. Shirtless and red-faced as he tried to hide his torso from Draco’s view.  
  
“Malfoy, what the fuck-”  
  
Draco took an instinctive step back, caught so off-guard that he knocked into the door. “Easy, Potter. I’m just getting Jimmy a new broom,” he babbled, throwing his hands up quite involuntarily.  
  
_Fuck, if Potter thought he was creeping_ on purpose, _it would ruin any interest in him he’d built so far. That was far too strong of a come-on for someone as flighty as The Boy Who Lived_.  
  
And yet. Here was Potter’s naked torso in front of him – he tried to keep his eyes on the man’s face, he _really_ tried. But even _he_ – trained in Occlumency and repressing his deepest desires – couldn’t resist a quick glance to catalogue that smooth expanse of skin, especially if it’d be the only chance he ever got-  
  
Draco forced his gaze back to meet Potter’s, feeling at least equal measures guilt and overwhelming luck. But Potter’s eyes weren’t on his. _Now_ , Potter was looking at _him_ – trailing his eyes down Draco’s Quidditch leathers in a way that made his throat go dry.  
  
_Fucking hell_.  
  
The dwindling voice of reason in his mind was shouting to _get it together_ , and he jolted into motion, snatching a broom from the closet and heading out the doors before he did anything he regretted. As a teacher, he had _obligations_ now; he couldn’t just skip out on his class to stutter and stare at Potter in the locker rooms – no matter how flustered and adorable the man looked; even though that’s _exactly_ what Draco wanted to be doing.  
  
He heaved a sigh, stalking across the lawn and hoping the September breeze would wash the heat from his face. It wouldn’t do for his students to see him like this.  
  
He somehow managed to calm himself by the time he reached the pitch, and with the new broom, Jimmy floated easily into the sky. Then, mercifully, Draco could finally begin his class.  
  
His students were still getting used to the feel of flying – with the exception of several purebloods and half-bloods who had grown up riding child-size brooms and looped the pitch a bit smugly. Merlin, it didn’t seem terribly long ago that that had been him. When he’d arrived at Hogwarts that first year, he’d had almost five years of practice on the most high-end of kids’ brooms; Father had wanted him to be the top seeker after all.  
  
And then, as usual, Potter had to come and muck it up.  
  
But as he helped a young Muggleborn girl keep her broom from swerving, he began to notice an underlying nervousness on the pitch. She, like several other Muggleborns in the class, kept flicking her eyes to the more experienced flyers with an expression akin to envy, but far less self-confident.  
  
It made sense – these kids were years behind on building this skill, and suddenly they were expected to keep up without being afforded the time and encouragement? Had _Draco_ been thrown into a similar situation, he would’ve felt humiliated and _hated_ it and-  
  
_Oh_.  
  
With sudden clarity, he wondered if Potter had ever felt like this. Even as a boy, he’d always looked so confident, so defiant that surely… But if it were Draco, he wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see his weakness either.  
  
Feeling a little unsettled in this revelation, he threw himself into coaching, trying his best to spread his comments fairly and evenly and without favoring any particular side of this divide. For the inexperienced, he gave helpful pointers and encouragement; for those who knew what they were doing, he acknowledged it, but gave advice on further improvement.  
  
And even though he was completely engaged in this, he sensed rather than saw the moment Potter reappeared on the pitch. It was like he’d trained himself to notice the slightest hint that he was near.  
  
“Ah, looks like the Savior of the Wizarding World is ready to fly! Could we get you up here to demonstrate a few maneuvers, _Professor Potter?_ ” he called, desperately aiming for his usual, mocking tone of voice. An image of the man shirtless spiked through his brain again.  
  
Potter obliged, but since he was a prat, he did some fancy spin on the way. Clearly, he was unaffected by the encounter.  
  
They showed off some blocks and rolls, trying to one-up each other as usual, and when he suggested a scrimmage, Potter acquiesced more easily than he would have expected. Perhaps it had something to do with the way he kept twitching whenever Draco called him “Professor” – a pleasant surprise that had Draco revising his previous stance.  
  
_Okay, maybe not “unaffected,” after all_.  
  
For the scrimmage, he told his class to land and take notes of the moves they recognized in a desperate attempt to rein his thoughts back to professionalism. It was a _legitimate_ class exercise – he told himself so, at least.  
  
As he had hoped, the match was quick and dirty – laden with taunts and feints that left him breathless. Exhilarated as he was to fly with Potter again, Draco was almost taken in by the Wrongski attempt, which he pulled out of at the last second. (Just because he was destined to follow Potter crashing into the ground didn’t mean he needed to enact it _literally_.)  
  
They noticed the snitch at the same time.  
  
Potter took off like a shot, and it took all of Draco’s skill to maneuver up next to him, despite their similar speed. The man threw an elbow, and he elbowed back – but both refused to give up the narrow line of the most direct path towards their goal.  
  
His shoulder, his forearm, and his thigh pressed tightly to Potter’s, and each swath of skin under his gear was branded with the singular, white-hot knowledge of that intimacy. His eyes were on the snitch.  
  
His eyes were on the snitch.  
  
_Merlin, fuck_. He realized he cared more for the game than the winning – his eyes snapped to Potter, and then he was twisting and falling. A flash of gold imprinted his sight as Potter’s fist wrapped around it-  
  
The impact was a blur of green and scratches. When the dizziness faded, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, eyes focusing blearily on Potter as he landed gracefully to his right.  
  
_Okay, so he’d fucked that up a bit_. He had planned on winning this time to impress the man on how much he’d improved. For he _had_ improved.  
  
But Potter, looking far too pleased with himself, raised the snitch for the students to see, completely unaware of this injustice. Then, his eyes caught on Draco’s.  
  
Draco wiped at his cheek self-consciously. He knew he was covered in grass and dirt. But with Potter looking so animated from the match in front of him, he couldn’t bring himself to care. That awful weariness that had blanketed Potter since his return seemed to have evaporated in the space of his victory, and it was a good look on him. A _really_ good look.  
  
As he met Draco’s gaze, Potter’s smile fell away and faded to a blush.  
  
_What was his face doing?_ Draco wondered. It was likely too revealing – the fall had knocked some of his usual mental barriers away, and it was terribly hard to keep these feelings locked away all the time. Perhaps Potter could sense their intensity through eye contact alone.  
  
The thought made him shiver.  
  
He supposed he should look away – brush him off, break the silence. Something to distract from the longing in his gaze. But, in this moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care about that either. He looked and looked his fill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Happy Pride Month!  
> Things have been crazy, and I'm moving on top of everything, so I apologize for my slow-ish timeline in putting out new chapters (I just haven't had a chance to write anything new for this story in over a month, so I'm terribly behind). Also, I ended up modding a FEST! So if that's something that interests you, definitely check out the [Drarry Strugglefest Tumblr](https://drarrystrugglefest.tumblr.com/) and our fest [Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Drarry_Strugglefest_2020) here on AO3 once June 22nd hits and posting begins! 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you all have been staying safe. Your comments really mean the world to me and inspire me to keep going with my works. 💕  
> xoxo


	4. The Snake's Hungry Glare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w: PTSD; graphic violence (memories of Nagini eating someone); masturbation

**1 year, 7 months earlier**

He needed to leave the Manor. That much was absolutely clear to him. If Draco didn’t leave the Manor soon, there wouldn’t be enough left of him when he finally got out. 

His former home was stifling and – more than anything – _stagnant_. With Father in jail for another five months, and him and Mother banned from using magic for almost another year, they were each trapped in their own uncompromising hell. But rather than bring them closer, it had only fractured them apart.

Mother had left the house the way it was the day the Death Eaters vacated it. Sure, she had asked the elves to clean and restore, but otherwise, everything was kept the same. The rooms where the most terrible of tragedies had occurred – well, she simply shut their doors. As if, someday, when the memories had blurred a bit around the edges, she could simply throw them open again and see not a woman getting devoured on their formal dining room table, but instead, the easier times of winter suppers before the war. 

It was a fruitless endeavor, a pipe dream – for he knew he could not unsee the blood as it soaked into the wood. Something had changed in him that moment – a realization of a most unsettling parallel – as he saw their heirloom furniture drink in every greedy drop. 

In sum, Draco was no longer the same boy who had grown up in this place. It felt as distant as it did familiar, abstracted from him in the never-ending river of tainted memories. And his mother’s motivations, focused as they were on mending the past, remained irrevocably alien to him. 

She took her morning tea in the parlor. He took his in his room.

She strolled through the gardens. He strolled between shelves in the library.

She pleaded that things could go back to normal. He told her “normal” didn’t exist for people like them. Not now, not anymore.

And if it did, how could he possibly return to it? How could he, in good conscience, slip into a role that had led them _here_ – wandering through this house kept as a museum of their former lives, in which every exhibit held nothing but fear and lies and dust? It was insanity, and he was beginning to feel more like he’d died in the war than survived it.

Mother wanted the past, but Draco had changed. He had changed, and for the first time in his life, he found no comfort in the familiar – the etiquette, the influence, the traditions. The war had destroyed the illusion of it all, and perhaps it had never existed concretely to begin with. He needed something new.

Draco had changed, and for the first time in his life, he needed to move forward.

**Present**

Potter was acting inexplicably weird this morning, and it bothered him that he had no idea as to the cause. First, he showed up at breakfast with dark bags under his eyes, and now he was sputtering and spilling drinks, and Draco could’ve sworn he had flinched away from him when he had reached across him for a roll. 

_Why the fuck was he so_ jumpy?

Was this a result of their Quidditch match? But they had played matches since they were kids; as much as it pained him to say, Potter knocking him off his broom was nothing new. Perhaps the man had finally deciphered the latent desire in Draco’s gaze – though, given his track record with these kinds of things, it didn’t seem likely.

“Potter, are you-” he began as the enigma himself patted furiously at a juice stain with his napkin. 

“No!” he shouted just as Draco finished with “-feeling ill?” 

Draco blinked at him in confusion, watching a new blush rise to Potter’s face. Then, he excused himself immediately, muttering that _yes_ , he actually _wasn’t_ ‘feeling great,’ and that he needed to go clean up his shirt – ignoring Draco’s reminder that he was indeed a wizard who could do such things with magic. 

“Er, did I say that I was going to clean up the juice?” he replied with a hysterical sounding laugh. “I meant ‘go to Madam Pomfrey’s.’ Really feeling off sorts this morning.”

He turned and sped away, leaving Draco befuddled and utterly at a loss with two partially finished breakfasts in front of him. _What the hell was_ that? 

Draco decided that Potter must truly be ill.

He tried not to think about it, but throughout the day, his thoughts kept circling back to how oddly Potter had acted, and that flush upon his face that must’ve been fever, the more he thought about it. But even if _he_ had realized it – had Potter? The man was stupidly Gryffindorish; he likely wouldn’t visit Madam Pomfrey until he passed out in a corridor and someone forcibly dragged him there. 

But he had told Draco he was going. And Potter didn’t lie – it was one of those things that made him as stupid as he was charming. So he was bound to be there. 

Draco was so caught up in his thoughts that he nearly ran into McGonagall while turning a corner in the halls. 

“Mister Malfoy!” she exclaimed after taking a step back to avoid collision. “I’ve been hoping to run into you, actually.”

“Oh?” he managed, searching his memories of the past few days to see if he’d said or done something dreadful. 

At his obvious reluctance, her lips twitched with amusement. “Nothing bad. I simply wanted to see how you’re getting on with your classes. Everything going smoothly, I trust?”

“Classes?” he breathed. “Yes, er, everything is going smoothly. No major mishaps so far…”

She waited a beat, as if expecting him to continue, but since he’d been utterly unprepared for this meeting, he found himself drawing a blank. McGonagall was terribly intimidating at the best of times, and furthermore, she bore the knowledge of all his faults and mistakes. It gave him anxiety to think about what she actually must think of him.

“Did Rolanda give you everything you need?” she asked in the face of his silence. “If you feel unprepared for any of the lesson plans, feel free to contact me, and I can get you in touch with her for clarification. The first year of teaching is always the hardest, and there’s no shame in asking for help – blunders are to be expected as well.”

“I believe I have everything I need,” he managed, feeling strangely out of his depth. “But thank you – I’ll keep that in mind.” 

She smiled curtly. “Good. Well then-” she nodded and continued on her way. 

Draco stared after her, bemused, for a few seconds before resuming his walk to the Hospital Wing. 

When he arrived, he was astounded to find that Potter wasn’t there. _Had never been_ there, actually, according to Madam Pomfrey. His blood begin to boil. 

Alright, so Potter _did_ lie sometimes. But only to _him_ , apparently. He undoubtedly thought that, with someone as morally corrupt as a Malfoy, it didn’t matter if he didn’t tell the truth. He deserved that little respect.

Draco swept out of the room and down the hall, fury only sharpening when he spied Potter – a perfectly _healthy_ looking Potter, he noted – walking a kid in his direction. Potter glanced up then, eyes widening and then a look of worry coming over his face before he nodded, greeting him with a neutral “Malfoy.” 

“Potter,” he spat, unable to contain his hurt. 

He had thought that, as the pinnacle of “goodness” and “moral superiority,” Potter – if no one else – would have afforded him a fair second chance. But he had been mistaken.

Ignoring the look of confusion upon the man’s face, he strode on and around the corner.

He had been sulking in his office for a half hour or so – and compiling a comprehensive list of all his students’ flying abilities in order to better coach their varying levels – when he heard a knock at his door. 

That, in and of itself, was rather surprising. No one knew about his office – no one except McGonagall and now Hannah, whom he’d casually told the other day over dinner. _Maybe McGonagall came to fire me_ , he thought. _That conversation earlier was a test, and I came up short_ -

That hesitant knock came again, and he figured that if it was McGonagall, she would’ve called out impatiently by now. He walked over and opened the door.

“Potter? What do you want?” His earlier anger was tempered slightly by the shock of seeing the other man here, out of the blue. “I didn’t know you knew where my office was.”

The man looked fidgety and altogether out of his element. _Then why was he here?_

“I didn’t,” he admitted. “Hannah told me.” 

“Why?” Now, he was genuinely curious. What had bothered the Savior of the Universe enough to ask around and find him?

“I heard you went to Madam Pomfrey’s looking for me,” he blurted. 

Draco’s eyes narrowed. _Oh. That’s what this was about._ He had come to tell him off for not minding his own business – or _worse_ , to make fun of him for caring enough in the first place.

Fine. He’d shut this down before it could get started. “Yes, you were acting so ridiculously this morning, I thought I’d go have a laugh.” 

If he said it first, then it would cut less if Potter said it back. 

Potter’s face shifted subtly, but he was clearly still bothered by something, as he continued undeterred, “I, err, felt a little better, so I went and laid down for a bit in my room instead. But thanks for checking on me, I guess.” 

Oh. Draco understood then. Potter was after a _pity play_.

He would start by brushing off Draco’s earnest worries, then go on to politely reminding him they weren’t necessary in the first place – how presumptuous of Draco to assume anything else! He felt his face heating in mortification – if that was the way Potter was going to be, then Draco would deny it to the end. “I wasn’t ‘ _checking on you_ ,’ you arrogant twat! You have plenty enough people to fawn over you!”

Potter’s recoiled, expression shuttering, brows drawing together in defensive fury. “Well maybe if you weren’t such a git yourself, you’d have more people worrying about you!” 

_Low blow_. Did Potter think he didn’t _know_ that? Did he think that Draco hadn’t _tried?_

“I’m perfectly fine on my own!” he lied. “Unlike ‘Savior of the Universe’ over here, who needs to be the center of attention at every waking moment!” He felt the conversation spinning away from him, but he couldn’t quite get a grasp on himself enough to stop.

“I don’t want to be!” Potter shouted, and the words were loud and angry enough to shut him up entirely. 

Draco blinked at him in the ringing silence that followed. _‘Didn’t want to be’…_ what? _Savior_ or _center of attention?_ Both seemed like wonderful, covetous things to Draco.

“Look,” Potter said quietly, “I just…I came to ask if you…wanted to help me with one of my lessons tomorrow.” 

Draco didn’t even try to hide the shock that graced his face. Surely, he had misheard. The request was so unexpected that he had trouble wrapping his head around it. 

_Ahh, but that was Potter’s habit, wasn’t it?_ his mind raced. _Inventing reasons to keep him close and spy on him._ They had always found things to clash over – only, with time, Draco had come to acknowledge the force driving _him_ towards Potter was based in something other than hatred and mistrust. Something else entirely. But Potter seemed to have gone through no such transformation. 

His voice was flat as he joked, “What, you need a ‘big, evil _Death Eater_ ’ to practice against?” He felt more than a little disgusted. With Potter for suggesting it; with himself, for inevitably going along with it – if that was what it took to be near him.

But Potter’s response broke him from his swirling thoughts. “What? No – I just know you’re good at dueling.” 

Draco felt his eyebrows creeping up his forehead. _Was that…a compliment?_ _From_ Potter? Surely-

“I came to one of your classes,” Potter continued, a bit restlessly. “I thought it’d be fitting if you came to mine.” 

Draco’s confusion was mounting – did Potter _want_ him to visit his class? He seemed rather determined about it, in a way that both shook Draco to the core and terrified him. _Was this part of another game? If so, what were the rules?_

But Potter looked so open and hesitant here, in a way he normally only observed from afar. He found his thoughts looping back to the question that had plagued him for weeks now: was Potter _interested_ in him? Earnestly? 

He didn’t quite believe that he was; but he decided to indulge himself by playing along. He needed more information, and playing Potter’s game was the best way to gather it.

The worst that could happen was being left brutally heartbroken for all time eternal.

“Why should I help you?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe. “After all, like you said, ‘I shouldn’t want to show my face in front of the students after yesterday.’”

He met Potter’s gaze and saw a flicker of relief there. 

“No, I said ‘if it were _me_ , I wouldn’t want to show my face.” The man grinned impishly, seeming to sense Draco’s willingness to play along. “ _You_ should be used to it though, after losing so much.” 

The insult didn’t have quite its usual sting, and Draco wondered – with no small amount of panic – if this was actually Potter _flirting_ with him.

He latched onto that thought, barely remembering to force a laugh and eye roll in its wake. “Fine, Potter,” he mumbled. And, because he was _desperate_ to test these new waters, he threw out there, “But only because you’re practically _begging._ ”

He watched the telltale flushing of Potter’s cheeks with fascination, eyes falling upon his lips as the man stuttered, “Al-alright then. Tomorrow.” 

_There was no way._

And yet, his reactions-

Draco found himself snorting in delight as Potter flipped around to try and escape. “Potter,” he called.

The man stopped, and, very slowly, he turned to face him. 

Inside, Draco’s heart was hammering in his chest, but it didn’t prevent him from offering a cocky smile. “Potter, you haven’t given me a time.”

He blinked. “Oh, right.” Seemed to ponder it way too hard. “12:30.”

 _Merlin, his face was an open book_. “Okay,” Draco responded evenly, “See you tomorrow at one.” 

He immediately protested, “I said-”

“I know what you said, Potter, I have _ears_.” He took several steps in his direction, wanting – _needing_ – to see what he would do next. He dropped his voice lower and continued. “But you should know, you can never win by using my own tricks against me.” 

He watched Potter’s breath catch, and it was the single hottest thing he had ever seen. 

Draco pressed on, backing Potter into the wall – his eyes catching on his office hours sign with inspiration. He reached out to touch it, watching Potter watch _him_ , seeing those beautiful green eyes widen as his arm stretched only inches from his face. 

“And,” he murmured, dragging his own gaze back up from Potter’s lips, “next time you come for a visit, make sure to check my _office hours_.” 

He smirked at Potter’s visible panic, and then the man was whirling to look at the sign that Draco was tapping idly with his fingers. Distress looked so delicious on him.

And only because Draco was determined to end on a high note, he wrenched himself away and closed himself in his office without a backward glance. _He had won this round_.

He wasn’t sure what game they were playing, but he had _won_. 

Draco touched himself again that night, thinking of Potter. It was a quick, exhilarated thing – matched in desperate pace only by his longing – and he came with a muffled groan of “Harry” against the bathroom tiles. 

And it was _that_ , more than anything, that scared him in the subsequent moments. The moments he stood huffing, forehead pressed against the shower wall, letting the water siphon sweat and semen down the drain. It was the time in which his previous euphoria faded and all his lingering doubts slammed back into him full-force. 

He was getting too attached. He was building his hopes too high, and they would surely get come crumbling down. 

His previous confidence in Potter’s interest was flagging, and he found himself reexamining every second of every interaction they’d had since he’d started this bloody job, and came out no wiser than before. Sure, there were signs of attraction – the blushing, the looks, the breathlessness. But what if it wasn’t _gay_ panic – what if it was _panic_ panic? If Draco unknowingly pushed him too far, then Potter would have even more reasons to hate him. Not to mention, he’d feel _terrible_ about it simply on principle. 

If Potter was simply trying to put the past behind them and become friends, and Draco was taking advantage of that to-…to-

The thought was too horrible to even _think_. He’d have to tread carefully. He’d reaffirm his mental rule that he wasn’t to touch Potter – one he’d gotten dangerously close to breaking last night. If Potter was interested, then he’d have to come to _him_. 

He slept poorly. 

Waking late, he looked in the mirror to find a ghastly visage looking back at him. He traced the dark bags of skin with weary fingers, wondering if others could see the world haunting him when they looked in his eyes. Or perhaps he had it backwards, and it was _him_ haunting _them_. 

He resolved to skip breakfast and do some reading in his room. Even though he was no longer working with them for his job, Potions was still a subject that drew him, and he’d been rereading the old tome of _Moste Potente Potions_ to calm himself down when something vexing happened (usually as a direct result of Potter these days). 

By the time the afternoon rolled around though, not even the book could keep his mind from wandering to today’s class visit. What had possessed him to agree to a duel? He was clearly in no mental state to hold himself together for that. As it was, his feelings were constantly fluctuating between an easy confidence that he had Potter right where he wanted him and the debilitating realization that he was deluded and undeserving, and it would never fucking _happen_.

He got up and began to pace, until he stalled in front of the mirror again. What would students see when they looked at him in a class dedicated to reviling Dark arts? What would _Potter_ see? 

The cruel boy who’d broken his nose in a train car? The boy casting _crucio_ at him that day in the bathroom? _The_ _Death Eater?_

Draco rolled up his sleeve and looked at his Mark in disgust. There was no point in hiding it – everyone knew it was there. When he covered it, the only one he was hiding it from was himself. 

And honestly? He was tired of it. He would go duel Potter as _all_ of himself, and if that was unacceptable, then he would face the consequences head-on. By removing the mystery from the equation, perhaps he could de-escalate the rumors; if he bore it brazenly, perhaps people would see beyond the shape carved into his skin. 

And Potter? Maybe the Mark would remind him of what he was getting into. In a rare fit of clarity, Draco realized that the kindest thing he could do for Potter was to scare him away entirely.

Draco arrived at the room on time, but chose to mess with Potter a bit before going in. He leaned on the wall outside of the classroom and listened to the increasingly flustered pacing of the man from inside. It made him smile.

While he was still incredibly nervous about dueling Potter in front of a class, he had Occluded enough of his darker thoughts that he was buzzing with that fleeting sense of false confidence. Even if he wasn’t planning to do anything stupid regarding Potter – he _hadn’t_ blocked out his resolution to hold back from making a move – he still couldn’t help but feel excited by his presence. Besides, they’d be _dueling_ ; it was old, familiar ground for them. 

At five after one, Potter’s scrambling was becoming rather pathetic, so Draco decided to take pity on him and go in. The look on his face was completely worth it. Merlin, if looks could kill, Potter would be a veritable _basilisk_ – and he found his lips curling into a grin at the sight.

 _Just how many places could Potter drag his emotions in the span of twenty-four hours?_ This was really getting quite ridiculous.

Thankfully, Draco was distracted by the delighted whispers of the second-years. While none of them were in his flying class for obvious reasons, he recognized one or two of them as students who had come to him for Quidditch advice before the try-outs. Apparently – judging by the curious glances and hesitant smiles – he wasn’t as disliked as he’d previously thought. 

Potter had started in on his lecture about dueling now that he’d arrived, and he might’ve laughed at all the important historical details the man was skipping over if his eyes didn’t keep darting to Potter’s lips – and his hands too, as he gestured emphatically about something involving “seconds.” It was fascinating really, watching him teach. He didn’t think he’d ever heard the man talk so much at once before, given their typically terse exchanges. 

And Potter’s eyes kept drifting over to Draco like he, too, couldn’t quite help it. Like he couldn’t quite believe he was actually there in his classroom, listening peaceably to him talk. Draco could hardly believe it either, and each glance had him preening – standing a little bit straighter, grin a little bit wider – while the Savior droned on and on about wandcraft with increasing fervor.

Potter was explaining the bowing bit now. He described it – once more, in only the barest of Wizarding terms – then drew his wand with a glance. Draco took this as a cue to draw his as well, keeping it light and loose in his grip. 

Again, Potter was watching him. 

It was a long moment before the man seemed to remember he was teaching and spoke again. “First, we bow.” Potter dipped his head hesitantly, eyes never leaving his, and so Draco let his own head drop into the respectful obeisance he had never granted Potter before. 

Something like relief shone in those green eyes, and it struck Draco that he had set the bar extraordinarily low for himself if him complying with common decency was so utterly surprising. For possibly the first time, he found himself vowing that’d he’d try to be less of a prick – though, it was hard when Potter had that unique way of getting under his skin.

“And now,” the man whispered, “we fight.” It sounded less of a command than a question, and for a long moment, neither of them even moved.

Draco stared at him, tensed and ready for the slightest casting movement, waiting for Potter to try and show him up before the class. Just the slightest twitch, and he would retaliate. 

But as the seconds drew on, Draco realized that Potter had no intention of starting this. His eyes were vivid and bright in the dim classroom, and they traced him intently as he waited – presumably, for Draco to make a move. So maybe this _was_ to be just a regular duel. Perhaps Potter wasn’t, in fact, plotting to trounce him in front of a captive audience as a spectacle. In which case-

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” he cast first. He realized as he said it that he always cast first. It felt right.

“ _Protego!_ ” Potter said quickly. 

They circled each other, and Draco could feel his blood humming its approval. _This_ was his natural state – locked in battle, eyes on Potter. Everything else was secondary.

“ _Titillando!_ ” Potter cast.

 _Really?_

“ _Salvio Hexia_ ,” he scoffed. “Come Potter, can’t you do better than a tickling charm?” It was like he didn’t want to _hurt_ him. But Draco wanted to be hurt – he wanted something less fleeting than Potter’s spellwork ghosting over his skin. His body ached with the hunger for it.

“ _Flipendo!_ ” 

The familiar spell caught him off guard, and then he was flipping through the air and hitting the wall with a crunch. It scratched at his itch.

Oh, he’d already been enamored by the first time Potter had cast this on him. _Furious_ , but enamored nonetheless. He pushed himself to his feet with a grin. His mouth felt wet, so he wiped the blood he found there. “Better. _Langlok!_ ”

Potter worked his jaw, fighting it, trying to speak through an unmoving tongue. His eyes were wide with surprise.

“ _Levicorpus!_ ” Draco cast in succession. He figured it wouldn’t hold his opponent long.

Sure enough, Potter dissembled the enchantment in seconds. He scrambled up from the floor and flicked his wand with another silent spell.

Draco deflected. He tried not to be impressed with that level of wordless magic. 

Then, mind caught as it was in memories of their first duel, his eyes met Potter’s, a spell rushing to his lips – “ _Serpentsortia._ ”

The snake slapped down upon the ground and hissed as it darted closer. It was like coming full circle. Draco grinned triumphantly at his spellwork.

But then he saw Potter wasn’t moving. 

His smugness faded in an instant as he noticed the panic settling on Potter’s face. The way his jaw was working, but no sound was coming out. _He can’t speak parseltongue under a_ langlok _curse_ , Draco realized with sudden, terrible clarity. _Merlin, what had he done?_

He dropped his wand to the snake, prepared to vanish it if it lunged, when Potter cast his next silent spell. 

The snake was suddenly encased in a large, protective bubble – and Draco felt his gut wrenching before he even could process _why_. Then, the memories inundated him, and that long stretch of nightmare expanded to fill his vision. He couldn’t see anything else.

Everything went dark.

**2 years, 3 months earlier**

Twitching. The body was twitching. It was undoubtedly dead, but it twitched with every sickening shuffle as the snake repositioned its body to swallow. 

Its jaw was slack: a horrid, gaping thing. And it stretched and contorted to allow for the _sickening-sadistic-unthinkable_ event taking place before his eyes – the painstaking consumption of an entire _human being_.

Draco had never seen a snake feeding before. The sight pinned him to his chair in both terror and a numb fascination. Those yellow glittering eyes – their glances pressed into his skin like a cold, maleficent promise. It was only a matter of time before he, too... 

_How long_ until he, too-

Draco woke up gasping. 

With a groan, he let his head fall back onto the sweat-soaked sheets. He’d been having the same nightmare now for weeks. Time after time, and it was always the same.

Always Nagini. Always _eating_.

It haunted him. Even the memories that didn’t end in such lethal feasting twisted and morphed in his sleep so that they did. Like the one of Rowle. Writhing on the floor under Draco’s _cruciatus_ curse. The looming threat that if he _didn’t_ , they’d both be fed to Nagini.

But in his dreams, it didn’t matter which choice he made. Everything led back to the snake.

And now, just days after the trials, he was still coming down from the torture of having relived it all again. The Wizengamot had prodded through his memories unfeelingly – and it had only been worsened by watching his parents’ recollections in the pensieve as well. 

There was something so sinister in seeing Nagini in that bubble next to the Dark Lord. The way she floated and thrashed, no longer bound by gravity’s weighted expectations. 

Father had submitted the memory to the court, and not even his desperate pleading to save his son that night of the battle could move Draco, knowing what had happened in that room next. Snape had died a truly terrible death. 

Draco rolled over in bed, eyes catching upon the Slytherin banner hanging on his wall. The fabric of the snake squirmed in the slight breeze from the window, and he felt his blood run cold at the movement. 

It was stupid. It was just a flag. And yet... 

Nagini curled sinuous and _alive_ in his memory. Rearing her head in the unsafety of night. 

He ripped down the banner, but it did not free him of the snake’s hungry glare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm finally getting a chance to sit back down and write some more of this (hopefully this week), so I will try my best to get back on track with writing and updates. Hope you're enjoying it so far! 
> 
> Also, like I wrote in the last update (and in my recent piece [Stairs of Wrath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24938062)), I'm currently modding a fest! So you should check out the [Drarry Strugglefest](https://drarrystrugglefest.tumblr.com/) and submit something if you're interested! :)


	5. Sweet Dreams

“Potter, what was _that?_ ” he asked, once he gained the presence of mind to speak again. His senses were slowly returning; his tunneled vision was expanding, and he thought he could smell the lingering burning scent that was unique to combative spells. 

He also noticed that all the students had left. _Good_ , he thought with sickened relief. He couldn’t handle being a teacher right now. He couldn’t even handle being _himself_.

“What was what?” Potter asked finally, sounding regretful and resigned. 

“You know what,” Draco responded. “Why’d you use the bubble jinx?” Even having never seen it with his own two eyes, his father’s memory was vivid enough. Potter certainly wouldn’t have forgotten something like that.

The man ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up even further. “It made sense in the moment. I don’t know.”

Draco waited for more. There had to be more – some deeper explanation for reopening such deep-seated wounds. There had to be.

“Why’d you roll up your sleeves today?” Potter asked. And then he flinched, like he hadn’t quite meant to.

Draco sucked in a breath. Held it. Slowly, let it out. “Why, what’s it to you?”

“You never do that.”

_He didn’t_ – _no. But perhaps it was time._

“Yes,” he murmured, “well, maybe there’s no point in pretending otherwise. I was a Death Eater. I can’t change it now.” It took something out of him physically to admit it. He was saying too much, his barriers were too sorely damaged-

“Would you?” Potter asked suddenly, unable or unwilling to read Draco’s urge to run. “Would you change it if you could?”

Draco turned to face him fully. 

_That Potter would_ ask _… That he couldn’t already_ tell…

“There are many things I wish I could change,” he finally settled on saying. “It doesn’t mean they actually could have happened any other way.” Even if _he_ had found the courage to change sides when it mattered, it didn’t mean that his parents would have been freed of the consequences. The Dark Lord had always known it was the best way to manipulate him.

But Potter wasn’t satisfied. “And the Mark?”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and tried to stem the tidal wave of frustration from pouring out his mouth. _How_ dare _he ask that? As if he couldn’t see how it haunted him. As if he couldn’t see the perpetual regret living in Draco’s eyes, if he only got close enough to look-_

“Yes, Potter,” he said slowly, trying not to think about it. Trying to keep it contained. “I regret taking the Mark. Does that make you happy to hear?” He said the last part scathingly, his words cutting two ways. 

But Potter merely frowned – frowned, and looked rather pensive. “Not ‘happy,’ I suppose…but relieved?” he finally answered. 

_Relieved that Draco was full of regret? Or relieved that he wasn’t talking to a monster?_

Either way, he was in no position to argue. He would take whatever recrimination Potter came up with, and this was frankly more forgiving than he deserved. He nodded.

And then he proceeded to Occlude the rest, unwilling to continue standing here discussing this. It had gone far enough.

When he felt safer within the walls of his own more organized mind, he managed to speak again. He tried to make it as light and teasing as possible – anything to rid them of this darkened cloud of memories. “Well, exciting class,” he said brusquely. “Can’t say I’m impressed with your teaching methods, Potter.” 

The man’s head snapped up, and after searching his face for a beat, he mercifully broke into a tentative grin that showed he would play along without comment. “That’s ‘ _Professor_ Potter,’ if you will.” He sounded smug about it too, like he could tell it bothered Draco that he had yet to reach the same title.

It did.

“You’re only ‘Professor’ in front of the class, Potter,” he muttered, fantasizing vaguely about calling him “professor” in an entirely different setting. If Potter would like that. 

“Well, you forgot it while we were dueling,” the man sassed back – and even looked a little put out by it too. 

“Oh, _I’m_ sorry,” Draco replied sarcastically. “I didn’t realize you were analyzing my every word.” 

It was a bit of a test, and Potter’s instantaneous blush was the unexpected answer. He felt his heart quicken in his chest. 

Immediately, he switched to the offensive. 

“Which brings me to another point,” he said, stepping forward into Potter’s space and smiling when the man’s back hit the wall. “Why have you been acting _so bloody weird_ lately?” 

Potter’s eyes flicked towards the door, like he still had the opportunity to escape. Like he had the _audacity_ to try. 

Without thinking, Draco slammed his hands to the wall on either side of him, caging Potter in. Making Potter _look_ at him. For once, he was tired of all the roundabout methods and schemes. This was driving him mad - he just wanted to _know_.

But Potter still wasn’t meeting his eyes. The man’s gaze was firmly downcast, shoulders by his ears – and leaning into his space like this, Draco realized not for the first time that he had gained a height advantage over Potter somewhere in the past few years. It filled him with a drunken sense of accomplishment that he certainly hadn’t earned, along with the urge to press closer and cover Potter’s entire body with his own – just to see how it would fit. Just because he could…

But, in fact, he _couldn’t_. 

He had promised himself that he wouldn’t touch Potter. He had _promised_. Unless Potter touched him first, he couldn’t risk exposing his desires like that – or inflicting them upon a man who would likely never want him, no matter how flustered or aroused he may temporarily appear. 

And _fuck_ , did he look flustered now. His breaths were coming in nervous huffs, and his smooth brown skin was flushed nearly scarlet. 

_Why wouldn’t he just answer? If he wasn’t interested, Potter should just tell him to fuck off._ It was the mysterious looks and mixed signals – in short, the obfuscated clarity – that drove Draco crazy. They allowed his hopes to swell, loud and buzzing in his chest until he almost combusted.

Draco swallowed, endeavoring to press on – if only to get some semblance of perspective on the matter. “Well, Potter?” If anything could get to him, it was always a dare.

The man finally looked at him, defiantly at first, then seemingly lost the longer it went on. It was searching. And Draco was searching his expression too. He saw the lust first – he _hadn’t_ been wrong, he thrilled to notice; it was _there_ – but beyond it, he saw something else too. _Fear_. 

He wanted to press in further and learn the reasons _why_ , learn what on Earth could scare the man who had defeated the Dark Lord and saved the world as a teenager. He wanted to know what made him tick. It was within his power; it would be so _easy_ – Potter was just standing there _staring_ , a shit Occlumens, completely _open_ – but that was precisely the reason that Draco absolutely _couldn’t_. That it was _unconscionable_ , that he never ever _could_. 

And Merlin, he would’ve settled for a kiss. He would’ve settled to ignore that fear, to extract and act on the lust, but even as the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it. He was too greedy to ever be satisfied with just that. 

He wanted Harry Potter – _mind, body, and soul_ – and nothing short of that would ever be enough.

Draco pulled away. It cost him something of himself, but he did it anyway. He blinked, trying to see the man in front of him clearly and not through the thick, obscuring lens of his feelings. He tried to see the messy nest of black curls without wanting to run his hands through it; he tried to look into those wide, green eyes without thinking “beautiful.”

Draco failed; he always did.

But he gained enough distance to suck in a breath and murmur, “Interesting,” with a final searching glance. Then, his legs were carrying him out and away – ignoring that magnetism that struggled to drag him right back to the beginning.

Draco had gone to bed that night convinced that he had scared Potter off. He’d been every bit of his pushy, unchecked self, and now he’d have to pay the consequences. There’d been no mistaking the fear in Potter’s eyes.

And yet, _somehow_ – despite all of this – Potter had come back the next day, seeming more insolent and _interested_ than ever before. He’d shown up at breakfast with a smarmy, supercilious disposition, and acted like – after everything – _he,_ at last, had the upper hand. 

Draco couldn’t for the life of him fathom _why_. Hell, he’d had the man pinned to a _wall_ yesterday. 

But before he’d had a chance to even _ponder_ it further, Potter had provoked him into another scheduled duel _and_ another Quidditch match. And the latter was to be held that very night after hours – _Merlin, help him._ It was like the universe had conspired to obliterate his self-control through unrelenting proximity.

Draco fumed and cast his thoughts in futile circles as he geared up to help some kids with Quidditch practice. It was a pair of second-year girls from Slytherin who likely wouldn’t make the team due to their age, but they had come up to him after breakfast this morning and asked, so he had agreed to help them out. He recognized them vaguely from Potter’s class yesterday.

When he got to the pitch, they were already circling and hitting bludgers at each other. This was a bit surprising for two reasons – the first being that Draco would not have pinned them as prospective beaters, and second, because they were actually quite decent from what he could see. The two of them must’ve been practicing over the summer.

“Good form, Marla! Kat – just aim your broom slightly to the left, and it’ll give you a better seat for a return serve,” he called, and they turned and flew over to where he was walking onto the green. 

The redheaded girl, Marla, blushed a bit – probably from the first name address by a teacher. Draco noted that it was a bit uncommon at Hogwarts, but something about calling all his students “Mister” and “Miss” when he _himself_ was only a “Mister” rankled a bit. Besides, he was young, and most of the kids seemed to appreciate the loosened formality. (In contrast with professors like McGonagall, he wasn’t that surprised.)

“Mister Malfoy,” Kat said with an excited smile, “thanks for coming to help us practice! We were just warming up.” She flipped some braids out of her face and wiped some sweat. 

“I can see that. You were both doing pretty well too.” He saw their eyes light up. “Now how about you show me what you’ve been working on, and I’ll give some pointers for improving your form as we go?” 

They nodded, and then all three boarded their brooms and began to rise. The practice went well – Kat had the natural disposition for a beater, all brazen dives and confident swings, and Marla seemed to be talented in strategic hits where Kat sometimes lacked precision. Overall, they were both quite good, and, also, quite good _together_. He found himself rather hoping they would both make the team. 

After about an hour of practice, he had given all the advice he could think of, and he bid them good afternoon when they decided to stay on a bit longer. It sort of reminded him of his own days of practices when he was a student – the long hours he’d run drills, even after the rest of the team had finished, in order to beat Potter to the snitch. It had never worked, at least not then. But perhaps tonight would be the match for his luck to change.

After all, he _had_ gotten better. His getting hired as a flight instructor was a testament to that (they’d had intensive flying technique interviews, which he had passed with…well, _flying_ colors). But more than that, his previous job had guaranteed his improvement. That job weighed heavy on his mind at the best of times, but his improvement was the singular positive note from it – and what he chose to focus on.

He took dinner in his room and read through some more of _Moste Potente Potions_ to try and calm down, though he found he couldn’t relax enough to really focus. After giving up on the book – Phineas Bourne’s prose was not exactly _easy_ to parse out with a distracted mind – he decided to head down to his office to work on his charts. 

It was a bit after nine o’clock now, and he commended himself for killing enough time that ten was no longer some faraway peak in the distance. He would just spend a little while going over the charts and adding ideas about how to best organize his two classes to help the students most effectively-

Something didn’t look right outside his office. Draco paused by the door, thrown for a second by not being able to place what it was. After a moment though, his eyes fell upon the office hours sheet.

The _full_ office hours sheet. 

He snatched it down with disbelief. _Who would…?_ And before the question was even fully formed, his eyes fells on the name: Potter. _Potter_. Only someone like _Potter_ would go through the effort to fill out _every day_ on his calendar from now until _Christmas_. Only Potter was that dedicated to a prank. 

Though, as he took in the kinds of things actually _written_ on the schedule, it made him wonder whether this was one hundred percent a “prank” to begin with. Some it sounded…well, some of it almost sounded like _flirting_. Here, there was a mention of “losing to Harry Potter at darts at the Hog’s Head” – was that supposed to be an invitation to Hogsmeade? And in October, he had written down something about embarrassing him in public. Did that mean he wanted to _be seen_ with Draco in public? 

He kind of doubted it, but once more, the ambiguity was maddening. He flipped to look back at September. 

Potter was trying to drive him crazy – it was as simple as that. And he wasn’t going to take that lying down. Draco ripped the sheet from his wall and took off towards the pitch. 

When he burst out onto the lawn, he wasn’t surprised at all to find Potter already there. The man was hovering about on his broom, looking every bit the cheeky, injurious bastard who would do such a thing. 

“What the _bloody hell_ is this, Potter?” He waved the office hours form through the air like it had offended him terribly. After all, it had. 

He saw Potter’s eyes glow, and then he was swooping down right in front of him, forcing Draco to halt his stampede if he didn’t want to get clipped. He staggered a bit to avoid him, yet managed to stay upright, and was willing to let it go until Potter had the audacity to smirk at him ghoulishly. Like a bloody _attractive_ ghoul.

Anyway, he’d been forced to send a _crescere porrum_ in his general direction, which the man only narrowly dodged. When he didn’t have the immediate satisfaction of watching leeks sprout from Potter’s ears, he burst out, “You absolute git! You filled in the entire page with utter nonsense!” 

He shook the paper in Potter’s face again to drive home the point, but the man didn’t seem to be anything other than amused by the situation. Okay. Draco would just have to elaborate on his indecorum then.

“Like here,” he jabbed at the first month on the page, “‘ _September 18th. Lose to Harry Potter at Quidditch.’_ And here: ‘ _September 19th. Lose to Harry Potter in a duel.’ ‘September 20th. Sulk moodily throughout the day from losing to Harry Potter-’_ First off, I do _not_ sulk!” 

He flipped to early December. “And what’s this? ‘ _Help decorate the Great Hall with Gryffindor colors_ ’? I’ll have you know I’d rather _die_. And I particularly didn’t appreciate _this_ ,” he pointed manically at October 31st – holding the paper close to Potter’s nose – where it read: “ _dress as myself to a Halloween party, as my prattishness is truly terrifying_.” 

The holiday decorating one especially had his heart pounding irregularly, and he sniffed to try and regain his customary poise. “You’ve filled in every day until Christmas with your bullshit! Now, I’ll have to make a _whole new calendar_ to post by my office.” 

He really didn’t – no one was using it anyway – and Potter said as much. Draco brushed off his retort with another long-suffering remark, and then Potter was making this contorted face like he was trying really hard not to laugh.

“You told me yourself I needed to consult with your office hours and make an appointment,” he said. “I made several.”

Draco nearly shrieked in his face at the _gall_ , but reigned it in at the last second with an angry pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable,” he muttered – because it _was_. “You think this is _funny?_ ” 

It was also that, but the muddled intentions regarding it had also sent him into a panic. _Was Potter merely playing with him – amplifying these schoolboy rivalries for fun? Or did he actually enjoy the incessant needling in the same way that Draco did?_ Potter’s mood shift since last night had not brought him any closer to a clear answer – if anything, it had confused him even further.

Draco leveled him a glare that hopefully hid the desperation for answers in his eyes. “You want to play pranks? Fine. I’ll make you regret this, Potter.” 

He had changed in record time, cursing Potter and his unrevealed motives with every piece of gear he’d slid onto his body. Kneepad. _Fuck Harry Potter._ Elbow pad. _Fuck teaching with the git_. Right glove. _Fuck Harry Potter_. 

He adjusted his gloves some more when he got out to the field, tightening them angrily to show Potter that he wasn’t forgiven for his slights. But given the man’s idiocy in the past, he figured he probably didn’t get it. Draco caught him looking when he threw a leg over his broom though and took off at a higher speed than normal to show that he wasn’t messing around this time. 

They dove and raced across the pitch. Draco did some warm-up laps as he bided his time waiting for the snitch to reappear. The darkness seemed to throw Potter a bit at first, but Draco had long since gotten used to dangerous flying conditions. 

Before long, the snitch appeared on the far side of the field, and they both zoomed after it. Draco was close – it was only a broom’s length or two in front of him – but he could already tell he wouldn’t make it before it reached the trees. Unregistered games like this, the snitch could fly into whatever obstacles it wanted. 

Potter seemed to have no such sense; it was that Gryffindor thing again. He barreled right into the copse at full speed, sending a murder of angry crows tearing through the night sky. Draco dodged them with a roll and dropped down next to where the branches still shifted and shuddered below. 

After another minute, Potter burst through the canopy of leaves with a smattering of scratches and stray sticks in his hair. 

“You look bloody ridiculous,” Draco couldn’t help but shouting down to him. Potter left himself too open to insults to resist. “I knew you were a twit, but I never realized you were thick-headed enough to bulldoze a forest with your face.” 

Potter’s scowl twisted with defiance, and he scrubbed at a cut on his cheek. “Oh shut up, Malfoy. You’re just scared you’ll hit a tree and damage your pretty face.” 

It was thrown in defense, but Draco couldn’t help but grin like a loon as the implications of that sentence struck him. “‘ _Pretty_ ,’ am I?”

Even in the relative darkness, he could make out Potter’s blush. When the man refused to comment further, he sighed and let it go. He wouldn’t push.

“I’m self-preserving,” he said instead, letting the banter take over naturally. “It keeps me from looking as wretched as you do right now.” 

Potter grimaced and shook some leaves from his hair in an adorable gesture that looked a lot like a crup shaking water from its fur. 

He teased Potter a bit more as they drifted along, but his thoughts weren’t really on the words he was saying – they were lost in the graceful curve of the man’s shoulders; the unwavering grip with which he held his broom. 

So when Potter suddenly darted in his direction, it was altogether too little time for him to reign in his fantasies and react. Potter slammed into his collarbone.

They hit the ground in a messy pile, and the impact was enough that Draco felt nothing for the first few seconds, followed by a rush of feeling _everything_. His head was heavy, his chin was on fire, and his lungs felt oddly compressed. In the back of his mind, he registered the taste of blood, and realized he must’ve bitten his lip in the fall. 

The weight on his lungs shifted suddenly, and – freed of it - he found he could push himself into a sitting position, and his hand flew to his head to rub at a particularly sore spot. Finally, he managed to crack open his eyes.

Potter stared back at him from less than a foot away. 

Draco startled, heartbeat still slamming from the adrenaline, and he mumbled, “Potter” before he could help himself. It came out shaky like a question.

The man sucked in a breath and held it, green eyes roaming over his face with a new brand of hunger. Draco shivered under the gaze, hardly believing it was happening, but willing himself to wait – though it was torture. He imagined his hands were nailed to the ground so as not to weave them through Potter’s hair and make the first move. _Let Potter come to him_. 

Merlin, he was just _so close_. 

Draco could see the fine fissures where Potter’s lips were chapped. They were parted slightly and full; they were only six inches away. He ached to kiss them wet and soft again. 

“Potter,” he repeated, voice low and throaty. It cracked over his next words too, in which all he could manage was, “What are you doing?” 

Instead of egging him on like Draco had hoped though, Potter seemed to jolt back to reality. His eyes widened slightly, and he scrambled backwards quickly – breaking the implicit magnetism of their ever-closing distance. While this time they held no fear, guilt shone brightly in those eyes. 

He opened his mouth with an excuse that Draco found he’d rather not hear. Not now, not this time – after coming so close. 

“Your lip is bleeding,” was all Potter could come up with. 

Draco pushed himself to his feet to cloak the rush of disappointment. “Yeah, well you fly like a bloody lunatic,” he said quickly, bitterly. He prodded at the bruise on his lip where he’d bitten it. It hurt, so he kept dabbing it. 

Potter’s eyes were following him, and it made him want to scream. _If that idiot wanted this too – then why in the hell did he keep preventing it?_ It wasn’t right to assume; he knew that. But the interest in Potter’s eyes was unwavering, and he just couldn’t figure it out. 

Soured as his thoughts were, he was barely paying attention as he agreed to call tonight’s match a draw. He wouldn’t be able to focus after _that_.

It wasn’t fair. Why was he doomed to desire this man to the point at which it _hurt?_

His eyes flickered over Potter – his crazy hair, his battered face, those bright green eyes which shone now with only hesitance and confusion – and he felt his anger softening. Potter was clearly a mess. In both appearance and inside. Draco couldn’t blame him for what he had always known to be true. 

He cleared his throat with effort, trying to chase away the damning thoughts. Trying to reign the conversation back to safer grounds. “I’ll have plenty of opportunity to beat you at _tomorrow’s duel_ ,” he managed, once humor seemed possible once again. He began walking towards the locker rooms as he spoke, Potter following. Draco filed the angry thoughts away in the drawers of his mind – as was his habit in Occluding. 

When he glanced back, the heartbreakingly lost expression lingered on Potter’s face, though the side of his mouth did quirk up in a little smile – to Draco’s relief. “We could always resurrect the dueling club,” Potter joked. “To give my students some more practice.”

“Only if you come back and demonstrate more for my Quidditch class,” Draco replied, then immediately bit his tongue. It wouldn’t do to sound _too_ desperate. 

But Potter seemed pleasantly surprised by that offer, and agreed straight away. 

Draco smiled. He pushed into the locker room, holding the door behind him – only stopping when he realized Potter hadn’t moved to enter. “Well, aren’t you coming?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Potter hesitated on the threshold, looking vaguely ill. He caught Draco’s gaze with a twitch and muttered an “uh, thanks,” as he finally stepped through. 

The man’s nervousness was making him twitchy, and it wasn’t until Draco reached his neat pile of clothes on the bench that he realized what this was likely about. 

_For the love of-_

_They’d been using the same locker room for over seven years! Was Potter suddenly getting weird about it_ now? It was like he’d never had his teenage crisis about liking men in school then promptly gotten over it. 

Draco stopped. 

That was it. Perhaps Potter… _hadn’t?_ _Maybe Potter was acting so confusing because he’d_ never _liked a bloke before? At least, consciously – when he was aware of it._

In his peripherals, Draco caught Potter watching him as he tugged off his sweaty shirt. Though he hid it well, the thought made him squirm with excitement. 

_That meant…that meant if he was reacting this way_ now _, Draco was the_ first _to stir such feelings inside him. That he might be Potter’s first actual male crush._ His insides skittered with something white-hot like glee, yet tasting of triumph. 

He peeled off his knee pads and shoes as a grin stole across his face. _If Draco was the first man for Harry Potter, he could live with the hesitance and almost-kisses for a while. He could live with a bit of a consideration period._

_But that didn’t mean he couldn’t play with him a little._

In the background, he heard Potter belatedly rushing to strip off his clothes, and – just as he pictured – when he turned, he saw the man’s back turned to him in a precious self-consciousness. Merlin, the smooth, brown lines of his shoulders and waist just begged for Draco to run his hands down them. 

Since he couldn’t do that, he did the next best thing: embarrass Potter mercilessly.

“What, Potter, are you a _girl?_ ” he teased. 

As predicted, the man spun around angrily, color high on his face, only to be stunned into silence by the sight of Draco in only his pants before him. 

Draco preened as Potter’s eyes looked him up and down, eyes sticking definitively below his waist, and he jutted a hip out to lean sensually against the lockers. There was no mistaking the interest in those eyes now.

Potter seemed a bit like he might explode, and his voice was at least three octaves higher when he screeched, “Have a little shame!” before ducking his head from the sight. 

It didn’t last though – he glanced back up as soon as Draco began stepping into his trousers. 

“Why? Scared you like what you see, Potter?” He knew he was pushing a little now, yet he couldn’t help but say it – and with a laugh, no less - because Potter’s reactions were finally giving him reason to hope. And that, more than anything, filled his chest with a warm, euphoric rush. 

“ _No!_ ” Harry spluttered. But he didn’t look away until Draco had clicked the final clasp on his belt. 

He waited until Draco was fully dressed again before clearing his throat and murmuring, “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.” In true Potter fashion, he lingered a minute longer by the lockers, like he didn’t know whether to leave or to wait. 

It was endearing, and Draco decided not to make it easy for him. He made no move to hide his grin as he slipped on his shoes and straightened. Finally, when he knew Potter was practicing bouncing with nerves, he glanced up to meet his eyes. 

“Sure, Potter. Sweet dreams.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry for the longer times between updates. Life has been crazy, but I am steadily working on more chapters. (I've also been squeezing in another story for [Strugglefest](https://drarrystrugglefest.tumblr.com/) before it concludes, so that should be up in a few days as well!) 
> 
> Hope everyone is well, and thanks for reading! Your comments on this story and TNFI really do inspire me to keep working (on a defined and consistent basis)!
> 
> xoxo


	6. Entropy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w: speculation on childhood neglect/abuse

**1 year, 6 months earlier**

Not long after the nightmares worsened, Draco had left the Manor. He’d had no way of telling whether they’d stop after he was gone, but he knew that anything was better than awakening in the same rooms that haunted his very dreams. 

With dark bags beneath his eyes and a perpetual headache, he’d struck out into the Wizarding world for a job. 

Draco had no prospects. His education was incomplete, he was a social and political pariah, and, moreover, he was without a wand for another nine months. In terms of jobs he could actually perform, his options were severely limited. So he’d gone for the only field he thought he’d have a chance at: Potions. 

It was well-known that while wizards had an easier time brewing and overseeing Potions production (what with stasis charms and all that), any half-minded Squib could manage. It wasn’t particularly hard to purchase a self-igniting burner or pre-pickled ingredients. And Potions was the one subject Draco had always done well enough in to feel confident despite his current handicap. Getting a job in the field would be easy, he’d thought.

But it hadn’t been. After nearly a month of skulking around Diagon Alley and dodging hexes and spit, he’d finally given up on finding somewhere _reputable_. He’d hit up the familiar shops on Knockturn, resignation morphing to panic when not even _they_ would hire him – and it took several more days of begging various shop-owners until one reluctantly agreed to take him on. 

The man’s name was Morpheus, and he hadn’t offered a last name. The first time Draco came around, he’d started like he always did – with ethos. Tried to convince Morpheus of his talents and good grades. When that had proven dissatisfactory, he’d pivoted to logos, explaining how his unsavory background in Dark arts would help him determine which customers were out to cheat them. 

When he’d thrown his father’s name in the mix to provoke a reaction, the man had only laughed.

In the end, it was pathos that won him over. Not because Morpheus _sympathized_ with Draco’s plight – certainly not that – but he really got a kick out of reminding him of his pitifulness. He gave Draco a job in the back – one with a paltry salary – brewing potions where customers couldn’t see.

That was how, in the frosty beginnings of March, Draco came to be employed at Morpheus’ Miscellany. He lived in the back room, which the owner didn’t seem to mind as long as he didn’t steal ingredients (he counted them daily, too), and he spent his weekly wages on food sent for with his boss’ owl. It was a pathetic sort of existence to be sure. But, worst of all, Draco didn’t even _mind_ the circumstances after nearly five weeks of sleeping in alleyways and the occasional abandoned building. He was honestly surprised he hadn’t been offed in the interim. 

It was this thought that kept him upright at four in the morning when he’d be stirring a batch of Dreamless Sleep. He wasn’t dead yet – that had to mean something, didn’t it? 

_Didn’t it?_

The clock on the mantel ticked, and Draco stirred and stirred.

**Present**

Draco hadn’t been able to sleep after their match, so he’d done what he did best – pour an absurd amount of time and energy into a prank to get back at Potter. He’d gone up to Potter’s office, which wasn’t terribly far from his room, and tapped at the empty bulletin there.

 _What to do? Fill in his entire schedule?_ Draco considered it, but, again, it was uncreative. He was better than that.

His mind flicked through various devious and involved schemes until it landed on the right one. _Perfect._ He smirked, summoning some parchment and tilting it so he could approximate Potter’s messy scrawl. “ _Professor Potter’s Office Hours_ ” he wrote at the top. Dropped down a line, then continued: “ _office hours, 3-7 A.M. I am quite the early bird – please don’t bother me between the hours of 6 P.M. to 2 A.M., as I will be asleep! Thanks._ ”

He knew it was mean, but Potter had been craving punishment with his own little prank. It was only fair. 

And because he was still pissed about the “beginner’s lesson” quip that Potter had written on _his_ sheet, he penned in “ _Flying Lessons from Mister Malfoy_ ” on Mondays and Wednesdays with cheerful little grin. There. That ought to teach him.

It would be no fun if Potter found it right away, so he charmed it to the board, disillusioned it to Potter specifically, then disappeared into the night.

It took Potter four days to catch on, which was a little dim – even by his standards. The day after he’d put it up, Draco had come to breakfast almost anticipating a fight, but instead, he’d merely gotten to enjoy the expression of sheer disbelief on the man’s face when he realized Draco was sitting with Hannah. He made it his goal to be unpredictable more often.

It wasn’t until three days later – or nights, rather, as Potter came banging on his door at nearly four in the morning – that his trick was finally acknowledged, and Draco could be openly triumphant about it. Well, as triumphant as he could be, given the circumstances.

Harsh knocks jarred him from his sleep. After a _tempus_ charm to check the time and an immediate groan, Draco stumbled to the door.

“ _Who in Merlin’s name-_ ” he stopped as soon as the man’s livid face appeared. “Oh, Potter, it’s _you_.” He yawned, settling against the doorframe with a grin he was a little too sleepy to prevent, even annoyed as he was. “I assume this means you got my note.”

The man glared at him for a long moment. “Yeah, I got it alright. _How dare you_ post that fake schedule for my students to see! They’ve been keeping me up all night for mostly trivial things that they could easily ask during the day. Moreover, you made me look like an idiot with all those ‘flight lessons,’ you absolute prat!”

Despite the inconvenient timing, the reckoning had arrived, and Draco planned to milk it for all the hilarity it was worth. He feigned annoyance, rubbing at his ear like Potter’s complaints were merely an irksome drone in the background. “Yes, yes. Are you done your little tantrum?” he asked.

Potter’s mouth snapped shut then opened again. “No. No, I’m not. You had no right-”

And really, that just wasn’t _true_ , now was it? “I had every right,” he replied. “I warned you Potter – I said you’d regret it when you messed with my office hours.” 

“Those weren’t on the same level at all!”

Draco smirked. “It’s not my fault if your pranks are of lesser quality.” He leaned on his arm, trying to blink away his lingering weariness. Something clicked in his mind. “By the way, how’d you even find my room?” It hadn’t been a possibility he’d considered for this interaction. Not that he was complaining – any attention Potter directed at him was viewed as a precious quantity.

Potter blustered for a few seconds, trying – and failing – to wipe the guilt from his face. “None of your business, Malfoy!” he said at last.

Draco was deathly curious, but he focused his attack. “Oh, feisty tonight, aren’t we?” 

Potter’s cheeks stained red at that, and Draco drew himself up from the doorframe so he could look down at the man for a closer look. “I have to ask – and you can be honest, Potter,” he said. “Are you _stalking_ me?” 

He meant it as a joke – because _of course_ Potter was stalking him. It was obvious to anyone with _eyes_. 

But Potter was paling under his very gaze, and he realized it had been the wrong thing to say. After a too-long pause, the man snapped back with, “No! _Of course not._ Who’d want to follow a cocky arsehole like you?”

And… _fair_ – he probably deserved that. But if he backed off entirely now, he’d look like a fool, so he pushed on recklessly. “Are you sure? It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.” 

“Wh-what are you talking about?” Potter mumbled defensively. 

Draco really should’ve stopped there – the _fear_ was making a reappearance in his eyes. But now that he’d brought it up, he felt strangely unable to stop. Like this indignation welling within him was just as ripe and pressing as the moment it had been conceived four years ago. 

“Oh, you know _exactly_ what I’m talking about,” he said, pressing his pointer finger to Potter’s chest. He could feel the heartbeat racing, wild, underneath. “Sixth year, Potter. Chasing me around, _staring_ at me through meals, following me into the bathroom for Merlin’s sake! I could barely find a bloody moment alone.” 

It had been irritating at the time, of course. But it had also been all that kept him this side of sane with the Dark Lord living in his house. Potter’s frantic attentions had been _something_ in a time when he’d have taken _anything_ to escape. 

“I…I-” Potter was stumbling over syllables, and Draco really should’ve stopped, but some idiotic part of him truly believed that pressing this issue would get them somewhere. Like they were on a precipice, and if _Draco_ could say it all aloud, it would make Potter feel the same way about those long nights in the shadows. Like if Potter knew that he _knew_ , then the rest could just be simple.

It wasn’t simple. 

That much became clear after Draco delivered his final comment: “What, you thought you were being _coy_ about it?”

Something in Potter seemed to snap at that sentence, and when he looked up at Draco again, his eyes were burning with a barely-muted rage. “What do you want, Malfoy?” His voice was hardly audible in the wide, stone hallway. 

“What?” Draco responded, confused. “What do you mean, ‘ _what do I want_ ’?” _Wasn’t it obvious – what he wanted?_

Potter’s brow crinkled in pain, and the moment teetering on vulnerability was gone. The precipice of possibility was gone; his face was closed off, his jaw set harshly as they stood facing each other on stagnant, level ground. 

Draco watched it happening and mourned the loss even as he grasped desperately for a way to reverse it. He opened his mouth, but was cut off by Potter. 

“Never mind. Goodnight.”

It was only after the man had whirled to walk away that Draco realized the depth of his mistake. The words had felt so final, and their icy cadence terrified him. “Potter, wait!” he yelled, but within another second, the hallway was empty once again. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, rubbing his face vigorously and attempting to tamp down the swelling dread. 

He slumped against the wall, and with a rush of nausea, considered all the things he might’ve broken. 

He didn’t see Potter for three days. His eyes searched for him in the Great Hall at meals, and he found himself lingering in the corridors hoping to spot him. But it was clear – Potter was _avoiding_ him. 

The thought tore him apart inside, because, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong. He’d replayed their conversation obsessively in his head, each time hoping to discover the exact moment which had set Potter off. But, each time, he only found himself more confused than the last. 

_Was Potter mad that he’d brought up their school days? Had that ruined whatever truce they’d been establishing?_ He hadn’t thought it would matter – so much of their limited interactions had already drawn from the past. What was one more stray comment?

Perhaps Potter had been offended that he’d referenced the war tangentially. That if anyone had the right to bring it up, it certainly wasn’t Draco. He’d understand if that was the case, but something told him that wasn’t it either.

What he truly feared had gone wrong was his disastrous attempt at flirting. He’d said too much, far too soon – he’d pushed Potter away in reeling him closer. It was everything he’d warned himself not to do and also what kept him up at night, petrified that it would happen. 

Well - now it had. Through his own idiocy and lack of self-control, he’d fulfilled his deepest fears, and he would have to face the consequences.

It just wasn’t that easy to let go. On the fourth day since their nocturnal argument, Draco decided to go see Potter in his office. He’d grown weary of interrogating himself, and he’d be damned if he let the man slip away on some terrible misunderstanding. So, after dinner, he hoofed it up to Gryffindor tower before he could psyche himself out. 

He paused before the door. It looked the same as it had the other day when he’d stopped in to torment the man about his interest in flying class. The only difference was that the bulletin board out front was now noticeably absent of office hours. 

With a grimace, Draco knocked. 

It took a long minute for Potter to open up, but when he did, his face immediately shuttered. “No. I’m not doing this right now.”

“Wait! Potter-” Draco caught the door from closing, but only at the sacrifice of his foot. He bit back a wince as the man gave the knob another hard yank. “Hold on, just listen!” 

But Potter was already shaking his head. “I said no.”

“Will you at least tell me what I did? Why are you so _angry?_ I thought we were moving past that?” Draco hadn’t quite intended it in coming here, but he allowed a bit of pleading to slip into his tone. 

But Potter was cold to his attempt. “No,” he said one final time, shoving Draco back so he could shut the door. 

It slammed, leaving him hollow and alone on the outside. 

“Shit!” he mumbled to himself, not daring to say more in case Potter was listening from the other side. _Fine_. He would leave. This method clearly wasn’t working.

He would think of something else.

But whatever plan he started hatching was promptly tossed aside the next day after his interaction with Flitwick. By chance, they’d ended up sitting next to each other at dinner (mostly because Draco couldn’t stomach another night rubbing elbows with Trelawney and inhaling her cloud of incense), and they’d been partway through their meals when the man brought up the topic of dueling club.

“Have you heard, Mister Malfoy? We’re resurrecting it! It went dormant for years, after all, since they couldn’t garner enough interest. But that doesn’t seem to be a problem _this_ year – in fact, Minerva says there’s already a waiting list to join!”

He glanced expectantly at Draco, who was mostly just trying not to choke on the leg of lamb he was holding. “Er…pardon?”

“Oh, so you hadn’t heard, then?”

“I…” He decided against bringing up his involvement. Namely, that he’d promised Potter they’d start it up again _together_. Apparently, that promise had been short-lived. “Er, no actually. I hadn’t.” The polite smile felt stiff and forced on his face, and the lie cost him something to force out.

Flitwick didn’t seem to notice, however, and went on enthusing his interest. “Well! It’s going to be a great addition to the slew of extracurricular activities here. Always was a great club – when Albus told me no one was signing up anymore…oh, about fifteen years ago now, I told him that was _preposterous_. Dueling is not only one of the most _exciting_ sports – it’s one of the most _necessary_. Who’s to say when you’ll be attacked next? You could be crossing the street one day and get in front of a nasty hex-and-run. It’s vital to be prepared in moments like these.” 

“Oh…er, right.” 

“And Professor Potter – of all people – was the one to re-spark interest!” Draco’s eyebrow might’ve twitched. “I suppose it stands to reason, since his duel is undoubtedly the most famous of our era – but still,” Flitwick paused, face struggling between pride and envy, “it’s a shame that it took something like _that_ to inspire people…”

Draco managed to extract himself from the conversation shortly thereafter with a hastened eating regiment and swearing off of dessert. The food was lovely – as usual – but he still left the Great Hall with a bad taste in his mouth.

He wouldn’t go to dueling club, he decided. If the first meeting was tonight and Potter hadn’t even bothered to _tell_ him, then it was pretty clear where he stood on desiring Draco’s attendance. 

It stung. It stung in a way that he wasn’t quite ready for, given how he’d hardened his heart to the whole affair in the past couple of days. _He asked_ me _if I would join him_ , Draco thought, _not the other way around. So much for common decency._

_So much for that famous Gryffindor “courage.”_

He spent the evening alone, irritated in his room.

**1 year, 4 months earlier**

Working with Morpheus was degrading, but Draco managed to get through his first month on grit and gumption alone. He brewed potions for roughly twelve hours per day, breaking only to owl the nearby inn for a meal, which would appear about twenty minutes later on the workbench in the back. 

In order for the house elves to find him, though, he had to use his real name – so he had no illusions that the food went untampered with. Some days, his soup tasted more like a bowl of spit than “potato leek” – or whatever they were advertising – and, poor as he was, he just had to eat and bear it.

Occasionally, someone would come in who needed a custom order, and in those situations, Morpheus would appear in the back with a list and a gruff “Get to work” that sent annoyance lancing down Draco’s spine. The one thing he wouldn’t budge on was that Draco was not to be seen by any customers – a mandate that quickly grew frustrating when he needed clarification on potion uses or ingredients. 

“Just ask me, and I’ll ask them,” Morpheus would repeat, impatient and insensitive.

 _Yes, but for a Potions Master, you know pitifully little about diffusions of manganese_ , he wanted to say. Instead, he conveyed his question slowly, emphasizing the consonants in some irrational attempt to make Morpheus remember it all correctly. But, as usual, this only backfired on him, as the man got it in his head that Draco was mocking him.

“I know what a ‘legume’ is, you posh little brat! Now wait here, while I ask.” 

His class status was a point of contention between them, even though Draco had ostensibly lost any of his former privileges. While Morpheus mocked him for his background, calling him “snobbish” – or worse – he could see the gleam of jealousy in the man’s eyes when he needled him about all the luxuries Draco had lost. 

“How’s the soup today, Malfoy?” he often asked. “As fine as the summer gas-patchos you’re used to?”

 _Gazpacho_ , Draco corrected furiously – though he didn’t dare say it aloud for fear of proving Morpheus’ point. Moments like this were easy enough to ignore as long as he pretended he was somewhere else. 

Another thing he ignored in the coming months was a series of owls from his mother. He had answered the first few – in the beginning, when he’d let his hesitation about his current path lead him straight down the road into masochism. He’d wised up since then, letting his mother’s letters stack, unopened, in a pile that he tried his best most days to simply forget existed. 

April slipped to May, and without warning, spring burst determinedly onto the pages of the _Daily Prophet -_ which, seeing as Draco never left the shop, was his only true link to the outside world. From what he read, the flowers were blooming in the countryside, and the window-box gardens in Diagon Alley were flourishing with a little help from magic. It was the perfect piece of news from a perfect little world – one that existed just beyond Draco’s limited range of motion. 

He was beginning to feel like this back room would end up as his grave. The longer he dwelled there, mixing cauldrons in the shadows, the more he felt his hopes for escaping dwindle, then wane and drift away. Leaving no longer felt motivational; it felt _impossible_. If he stepped outside, who would curse him? If he quit, where would he go?

His thoughts fell, like they sometimes did, to inquiries about Potter. He’d heard a rumor once that the man had been forced to live in a broom cupboard. While he doubted that was true – who would deny the _Savior_ anything, after all? – he couldn’t help but speculate that it would feel something like this. Trapped in a room, day after day. Skin becoming sallow and pale, eyes bruising more from misery than lack of sleep. Unable to see the depths of his physical decline due to the poor lighting in the bathroom – which was little more than a closet with a toilet and a single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. But, to be honest, he would rather not see.

Thinking about Potter was always the worst kind of masochism he could inflict on himself – far worse even than answering his mother’s letters – because everything he could remember was rooted so firmly in the past. He hadn’t _seen_ Potter since the trials, and he certainly hadn’t been a part of his life, like he’d naively believed in school he always would. Back then, their rivalry seemed so large, so _inextinguishable_ that he’d made the cardinal mistake of believing that Potter felt the same way he did. That – even if he didn’t nurse dangerous feelings in his heart like Draco – Potter still wanted him as some sort of constant presence in his life. 

But a year had passed, and Draco had neither seen nor heard from him. He’d received no angry letters demanding that Draco thank him for testifying. No letters about the life debts. He hadn’t caught Potter lurking when he’d ventured into Diagon Alley for a job – like he half-expected to find. Throwing glances over his shoulder in Knockturn, he was more nervous to find _no one_ was following him, because it meant that, this time, he was well and truly alone.

He craved Potter’s attention more than he craved sunlight or a comfortable bed – it was an indulgence he often forbid himself from seeking, even in fantasy, under the cadaverous light of that back room. But on days he was feeling particularly hopeless, he let himself slip into the fruitless vice. The pain of coming down from such reveries was always acute enough to prevent its quick recurrence. 

Time was sliding by at a phenomenal rate for days so painstaking, but it all came to a standstill the day the other owl came. Usually, his mother’s letters were delivered by Persephone – a handsome eagle owl, who had been a sibling to his own. But this was not Persephone. This was _Agamemnon_ – a fearsome Great Horned Owl that only answered to his father. 

With trepidation, Draco pulled the scroll from his leg. Under the intent, watchful gaze (and pick-like beak), he didn’t dare toss it to his usual pile. He broke the seal with a wince, noting how neither Mother nor him had been so official in all the time he was gone. The Malfoy crest glared from the wax, red and shiny like hardened blood.

Dear Draco,

It’s time we talked. As you can imagine, I’ve just been released. 

I expect your presence this evening, or at your earliest possible convenience.

-L.A.M. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm getting back into the swing of things, now that Strugglefest has come to an end, so hopefully that means I can commit to a bi-weekly schedule (as long as nothing dire comes up). 
> 
> I hope you're enjoying the bits about Draco's past - they're honestly the most fun for me to write at this point, since they're all new material. Anyway, hope everyone is well and staying safe!  
> xoxo


	7. Chrysalis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w: tense family situations

In the following week, Draco read through _Moste Potente Potions_ in its entirety - powering through what could only be considered “Phineas Bourne’s literary masturbation” - in an attempt to forget anything to do with Potter. He scoped out an abandoned lab in the dungeons too, and by day three, he was brewing again – experimenting with all the potions he couldn’t afford the ingredients for back when he worked at Morpheus’ Miscellany. 

He hadn’t really planned on throwing himself back into potions when he’d come back to Hogwarts. Sure, he’d begrudged Slughorn his continued employment here as resident Potions Master, but it hadn’t been something he’d actually planned on _challenging_. Besides, with the time he’d spent in the shop, his interest in the subject had cooled more than just a little.

And yet, it still served as the most wonderful distraction. 

Standing over the cauldron as it bubbled green, then blue – inhaling the earthy scent of fluxweed as he stirred, then paused, then stirred... At times, it was easy to forget that he was allowed to use his wand again; he’d gotten so used to doing everything by hand. There was something so distinct about crushing lacewing flies under his knife blade that invigorated him in a way that a severing spell wouldn’t. 

Regardless, he worked himself to the point of exhaustion every day between potions and flying class – yet still, in the midst of all that, he found time to torture himself about Potter. What was the man _doing_ ,if not harassing Draco? He wasn’t even trying to be egotistical – he just genuinely didn’t know. Did Potter _have_ other hobbies? 

He flew, that was to be sure, but it didn’t seem like something he did often on his own, if his slight hesitance about night-flying had been any indication. He wasn’t a particularly collegiate man, so Draco knew he wasn’t spending that extra time _studying_. What did he _do_ with himself? What was he doing _right now?_

 _Other than starting clubs without me_ , the nasty voice whispered in his head. He shook the thought away. Dwelling on dueling club was definitely not how he wanted to spend yet another afternoon. He’d been so distracted yesterday at Quidditch try-outs, that he’d barely noticed when Kat and Marla had been selected as the beaters for Slytherin team, despite their young age. Then, of course, he’d leapt into action congratulating them. 

But today, though currently embroiled in a focus-necessitating potion, Draco couldn’t help but lament his current situation once more. When would Potter come around – if ever? How long should he tiptoe around the man to give him space before it became ridiculous? Frankly, it _was_ becoming ridiculous, and Draco wanted nothing more than to return to their game of pranks, if that was the only capacity Potter was willing to engage him in.

He added a drop of rattlesnake venom and watched as the cauldron blurred into luminous refractions. _That was it. He would plan a prank. It would be just like good old times, and Potter would forget this unclear feud. It would work._

It was _Potter_ – when had he ever refused a challenge? It would work.

It _had_ to.

The following week, Draco found himself once again sneaking into Potter’s classroom in the dead of night for the sake of a prank. He’d always prided himself on being level-headed, but in situations like these, he had begun to wonder whether that had ever been true at all. Potter brought out the crazy in him, for sure.

This time, at least, he wasn’t doing anything nearly so masochistic as facing a boggart to earn a mild annoyance from Potter the following day. This time, he was _adding_ something to the room. 

He creeped around the desks in silence until he reached the old, locked-up wardrobe. “ _Alohomora_ ,” he whispered on a chance. When the door swung open, Draco tried to hold back his grin. Because – _really, Potter? A simple unlocking spell was all it took?_ _Great “Defense” practices there._ But he remained resolutely quiet as he floated a stunned bat to the bottom of the wardrobe. He’d run into it yesterday on a nighttime walk around the grounds and had decided that it would be a suitably festive prank to play at the dawning of October. 

But one bat just wasn’t exciting enough, was it? 

He aimed his wand at it again, marveling at the slow rise and fall of the small animal’s chest, when such a creature was normally lost in perpetual motion. Such things were only possible with magic, and, after spending a year and a half without it, Draco knew better than to take such wonder for granted. 

“ _Geminio_ ,” he cast. The sleeping bat multiplied to about thirty before he drew his wand away. He closed the door softly and locked it with a flick. Musing that he’d gotten a lot of use out of the doubling charm of late, Draco couldn’t help but remember his mother’s amusement when he’d shown talent for it as a child. 

“Oh, my little Gemini,” she’d cooed, “there’s no wonder why you’re good at that one.” As a Black, she’d always been fascinated by star lore. It was one of the things she’d hidden most fiercely from Father – who thought that such pastimes were “trivial” and “common.” But it hadn’t stopped her from imparting them on Draco from a young age.

Thinking of star signs now, however, tugged at his chest in a way that would be best described as bittersweet. He remembered her lessons fondly, letting those feelings flare and fade to guilt when he remembered his stack of unanswered letters. Draco had written to tell her of his new position as a teacher, of course, but he had read neither the precedents nor the aftermath of that news. 

He wished things between them could be simple again – just tea and murmured horoscopes and carefree walks on windless afternoons. They would never be that way again, he knew, and acknowledging that fact was harder than postponing the confrontation indefinitely.

Draco closed the door softly on his way out, musing that he’d better be visited by Potter tomorrow. 

Potter didn’t visit him the next day or, even, the following. In fact, the most Draco heard as a result of his prank was a flustered McGonagall racing down the hall that afternoon, muttering “Bats! Who in their _right mind_ would charm a bunch of _bats?_ ” Which – although funny – was not quite the reaction he’d hoped for in setting out.

His bitterness at being ignored, however, was quickly morphing into concern as one week faded into the next, and Potter stopped coming to meals. He relayed his worries to Hannah – who’d caught him “moping” in the library later – and she’d merely assured him that she was sure “Harry was taking meals in his room – that’s all.” Sometimes, he got “busy.” 

Draco thought that was kind of bullshit.

After all, what did Potter have to keep him busy these days? Like he’d previously established, it wasn’t likely that the man was spending all that time _studying._ There were no secrets to keep him skulking; no pursuers to run from in the night; no obvious, important fanfare to occupy his time. So what could he be _doing_ – other than pointedly avoiding Draco?

One week blended into two, and Draco spent every second he wasn’t teaching either brewing or reading or cursing the fates for entangling his life’s thread irrevocably with Potter’s. Days like these, it truly felt like his feelings were coming up in knots – smooth and pleasant in some places, while snarled and unclarifiable in others. It was maddening, and somehow his mother chose that exact week to show up unexpected at the castle.

He was in the middle of notating a tome of “Complicated Potions for the Adventurous Brewer” by Eloise Haverton – a much more modern compilation, with much more practical prose – when he heard a crisp, polite knock at the door. Even without knowing whom to expect, Draco’s heart skipped a beat at the sound.

“Mother?” he gasped as soon as he opened the door. Because there she was – blue robes tidy and distinguished, a deceivingly neutral smile floating about her face. 

“Draco.” She nodded to him, taking half a step forward into his room. “May I?” 

Dread bloomed in his stomach, and he had half a mind to say “no” – which was quickly quashed by that recurrent wave of guilt that centered on the stack of unopened letters now directly in her line of sight. He stepped aside and let her breeze into the room, emotions buzzing in the air around her despite the perfect façade of calm still masking her porcelain face. 

“Lovely,” she said after he’d reluctantly closed the door. “You’ve made a nice place for yourself here, it seems.” 

There was an edge to her voice that suggested both pride and belated chastisement. 

He forced himself to sit in one of the armchairs, and she mimicked him in its opposite across the room. “Are you saying that in contrast to places I’ve worked before?” He knew it was bad manners to start a fight on a social visit – the first in a series of long months – but he couldn’t quite help it. There were just so many unresolved issues lingering between them, the air was dense with them. 

He could barely breathe.

The downward quirk of her mouth was the only flicker of reaction from her. “I’m merely stating it as an observation.” 

_Fine. She seemed to want to stretch this out_.

Mother glanced around the room once more, cataloguing his mental state from the condition of his walls, the freshness of his linens - no doubt. She’d always had a habit of being too perceptive for her own good. That’s why it had only been a matter of time before she noticed the letters. 

A ripple ran through her when she did. Her back straightened almost imperceptibly, and – despite expecting it – he couldn’t help but wince when her sharp gaze cut back towards him. 

“Unanswered post, Draco? I taught you better.” 

He bit the inside of his cheek at the arch expression. The guilt was eating him alive. “I needed…a break. For a while.”

“There could have been important news in those letters.”

“Could’ve? Or _was?_ ”

Her lips flattened. “In any case, I’m glad to see that you’re well – and not downed with some wasting-disease that prevents you from holding a quill. Your father and I have been worried-”

“I don’t _care_ what Father thinks!” Draco exploded. Because – really, she knew better; she could’ve just avoided that topic altogether. “Complain to me about correspondence all you like, but I’m not going to sit here – in my own home, in my place of employment – and listen to what _Lucius Malfoy_ wants out of a perfect son.” 

“Draco, that’s not-”

“Enough.” 

He ground his teeth, feeling older than he ever had in his twenty tumultuous years. Not long ago, he wouldn’t have had the guts to tell his mother to stop. He’d been so compliant for so pathetically long, and it had only harmed him in the end. Now, he stood up to her – not because it was easy or he enjoyed it – but because the alternative would surely destroy him before he’d had a chance to mature. 

Draco looked his mother in the eye. He sucked in a breath to temper the blow. “You need to leave.” 

Her resulting expression hurt him; but, sometimes, pain was just the foreshadowing of transformation. 

**1 year, 4 months earlier**

Draco walked up the path to the Manor, trying his best not to sick up in the hedges. His stomach was twisting violently with nerves at the prospect of seeing Father, and not even the courage-boosting potion he’d brewed for himself this morning was enough to temper the anxiety. 

He stopped in front of the ornate oaken woodwork, thrown by the unconventionality of having to knock on your very own front door. Though, it certainly didn’t feel like his anymore. 

Draco longed for more time to process it all, but in the space of that turbulent moment, Father himself threw open the front without warning. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t our deserter son at the door.”

The words dunked him in ice, not dissimilar to the feeling of passing through a ghost. “Father,” he managed – but only just.

The man’s clothes were the same, but the rest of his appearance had grown visibly ragged during his time in Azkaban. His hair was thinner, cheeks gaunter, bags carving deep canyons under his eyes. Those grey eyes gleamed with accusations he dared not make until Draco’s position was a little less precarious – that was the same too, it seemed. He still acted like a politician. 

“Aren’t you coming in?” he asked, mouth quivering on the edge between wry amusement and disappointment. 

Draco set his jaw and nodded. 

“Good,” he said briskly. “I expect your mother has dinner waiting in the dining room.” He turned without further comment, and Draco found himself almost running to keep up. It reminded him of doing the same thing as a child – always following his father a few, eager steps behind, and he felt sick. 

They arrived at the dining room – stilted and formal in the wake of him taking most of his final meals here in the kitchens or in his room – and sat stiffly at opposite ends, with his mother in between. 

“Draco, dear. It’s good to see you.” 

“Yes. Good to see you,” he parroted as their goblets filled magically with wine. He glanced at the first course lining the table as if hoping to draw some prediction from it. 

“How has your time been at the shop?” 

Father snorted at her question, and Draco braced himself for the inevitable rant that was to follow. “Come now, Narcissa. How do you _expect_ it to be going? He’s scouring cauldrons for the _illustrious_ Morpheus’ Miscellany – a shop too disreputable for even your sister to frequent.”

Draco bit his cheek to keep himself from shouting. “It’s not _disreputable_. And I’m not ‘scouring cauldrons’ either – I’m brewing the majority of the merchandise.”

“And that’s a thing to be _proud_ of? That you’re toiling away in some Knockturn potions shop, taken advantage of by your supervisor?”

“Lucius, please-” Mother cut in, but he was far from finished.

“I don’t see why you’re obsessed with _working_ at all! We’re not some band of commoners with nary a penny to our name; we’re Malfoys. We don’t _work_ – work gets done _for_ us.” 

Draco clenched his silverware tight enough for it to bend, and he wished – not for the first time over family dinner – that his fork was a wand instead. “Yes, and what an _inspiring_ life to look forward to,” he hissed. “You, me, and Mother – all cooped up together in the house where the Dark Lord once roamed, doing _nothing_ -”

“Draco!” The reprimand hit him like a hex. “How dare you speak to us like that? We gave you _everything-_ ”

“-except a future!” He was standing now, soup forgotten on the table. “Except a past I can look back on without regretting enough to want to die! You gave me _nothing_. Nothing but your own mistakes, repackaged in a new generation.” 

“Sit down!” Father commanded. And, because Draco had exhausted himself with his tirade, he complied. 

Sick to the bone, he sat and listened as his Father eviscerated him over seven courses of meal. 

**Present**

After his mother’s unwelcome visit, it was only another two days before Draco snapped and checked with the elves. He hadn’t gone down to the Kitchens much growing up – he’d been far too wary of detentions for that – but it hadn’t stopped Blaise from sneaking down for snacks late at night. So, intentionally or not, he knew exactly how to tickle the pear portrait to open up the door, and when the elves took immediate notice and asked him what he needed, he knew better than to be surprised.

“Evening,” he started, trying his best to sound casual rather than manic. “Have you prepared a meal for Professor Potter yet?”

The first elf, a drippy looking fellow with dangly ears, gave him a suspicious look. “Yes. We is having made Mister Potter’s meal just now, and is about to send it to him. Why do you ask?” 

Draco could see that, despite his own youthful negligence, the elves certainly hadn’t forgotten _him_. “I…I see,” he managed. “And would you mind if I saw that meal for a moment?” At the unimpressed look he received, Draco rushed to formulate a believable cover story. “We’re good friends, you see. But Potter’s been down lately, and I thought I’d cheer him up. Do you mind?”

The elf scowled spectacularly but did eventually admit, “Mister Potter sir has been out of sorts lately…” He gestured towards a decadent plate of linguini in a light cream sauce. “There it is.”

Draco repressed a surge of jealousy at the delicious and comforting-looking meal that was leagues above the things he’d ever gotten sent up to his room. Potter had certainly done more to earn the adulation of the elves than he had himself, though. With a sigh, he set out to do what he’d come to do – flicking his wand over the meal with muttered incantation.

The elf glanced sharply up at him when he was finished. “Mister Malfoy! You is having turned Mister Potter’s meal into snakes!”

“He loves snakes,” Draco said evenly. “Talks to them sometimes, in fact. This will surely cheer him up.” 

The elf regarded him with narrowed eyes for a long moment, finally murmuring something about “having heard of Mister Potter’s affinity for snakes, yes,” but also of “sneaky Slytherins would ought to stay out of the Kitchens in the future.” 

That was fine. As long as he delivered the meal to Potter.

Draco returned to his chambers and waited once again for a visit.

Yet, again, Potter did not visit. Draco might’ve simply given it all up too, had he not run into Longbottom on his way to visit Hannah’s office. 

“Oh, Draco! You’re looking…tense. You heading to see Hannah?” 

Draco glanced around the hallway and bit back a snappy comment about what _other_ reason would he have to visit Gryffindor Tower at this time of day. “Yes,” he said tersely. “Unless _you’ve_ happened to see Potter today?” 

Surprise flitted across Longbottom’s face. “Harry? Nah, I haven’t seen him. I think something might’ve happened with Ginny though – he’s been in a rut for a while now, and that’s the only thing I can come up with.” 

“With…Ginevra?” Draco repeated, as he processed that possibility for the first time. If Potter had had a fight with the Weasley girl, then maybe – just _maybe_ – this wasn’t all his fault! 

Now that he considered it, it seemed arrogant to assume it was. 

“Yeah,” Longbottom responded easily. “I mean, I don’t know for sure, but they’ve been a bit off-sorts the past few times I’ve seen them together, so I’m just speculating here. Maybe Hannah’s heard more?” 

He nodded distractedly, thanking Longbottom before pressing onwards. 

It was only later that evening, after visiting the Kitchens and hearing that Potter had been refusing meals, that he decided enough was enough. He went to bed with a headache, and in the morning, Draco set off resolutely towards the Headmistress’ office. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Hope everyone is doing well and staying safe. 
> 
> I apologize that Harry has been largely absent from this/the last chapter 😅 Don't worry - he'll make his reappearance in the next one, I promise. The boy just gets very angsty sometimes. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!  
> xoxo


	8. The 'Good Old Boys' Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Correction note:  
> Okay, so I messed up some of my timestamps for the jumps to Draco's past, and I SINCERELY apologize. I did bad math the once, and then it messed up the subsequent ones as well. 😱😱😱 So if you noticed the timeline was bad and were just too polite to say anything, know that I am suitably ashamed of myself and have gone back to correct past chapters. Therefore, the "1 year, 3 months earlier" sections that appear in this chapter are following the ones from previous chapters in sequence. 
> 
> #theperfectionist'sdownfall

He found McGonagall inside her office, though far more flustered than he normally saw her. 

“Mister Malfoy!” she called, as soon as he stepped into the room. “Good! I was hoping to run into you this morning. Do you have any ideas as to why Harry didn’t attend his classes this morning?” 

Draco blinked, pausing in the doorway. “I…what? He didn’t show up to teach his classes?”

She momentarily halted her frenzied sorting of parchment scrolls on her desk to fix him with a hawkish glare. “No. And I’ve been asking around the staff to see if anyone knows _why_.” 

He frowned. “Well, unfortunately, I have no clue. I hadn’t even heard.”

She let out a long sigh, irritation spilling from her like an overturned inkpot. “That’s too bad. I wish _someone_ could shed light on this situation. Regardless. What can I help you with this morning – if not something to do with Harry?” 

Draco entered the rest of the way at her gesture, finding a seat by her desk with a distinct prickle of embarrassment. “I…er… Well, it _is_ about Potter, actually.” 

McGonagall glanced up at him quickly, resignation fighting wearied amusement in her eyes. “Of course. Why _wouldn’t_ it be?” She tapped her wand against the papers, and they sorted themselves nicely before floating into the appropriate filing drawers. When she looked back at him, she seemed to have regained some of her composure – which, with a woman like Minerva McGonagall, was a reassuring sight. “What is it this time?”

Draco floundered for a moment, unsure how to phrase what seemed so necessary for him to say just minutes before. “Potter’s…not eating.” 

Her eyes widened fractionally in surprise. 

He continued. “I mean, he hasn’t been coming to the Great Hall for meals for over two weeks now, but I talked to the elves last night, and they told me he’d been refusing meals for the past two days. I figured I should say something.”

“And is there any particular reason you couldn’t say something to Harry himself?” she asked, though her expression had softened into concern. 

“I…” His face burned. “He’s not talking to me right now, so I was hoping someone else could.” 

“That someone being me, I suppose?”

He nodded, not daring to meet her eyes.

Another sigh. “Very well. I was planning to speak with Harry already, given the situation with his classes this morning, so I suppose I might as well confront this while I’m at it.” 

The weight on his chest lightened immeasurably. “Thank you, Headmistress.” In her capable hands, Potter would be knocked to his senses. “It means a lot to me.” 

“Does it?” 

Startled, he met her eyes to find they’d taken on a considering look. Under that gaze, he found he didn’t have the courage to lie – though, neither could he tell the truth. 

He settled for a vague nod, rising to see himself out. “I’ll be going, then,” he said.

Draco felt her curious eyes on him long after he’d turned to walk away.

The day passed by in a blur of relief mixed with anxiousness, and his only comfort in the whirlwind was the fierce, satisfied expression on McGonagall’s face that night when he saw her sitting at dinner. About halfway through the meal, she caught him looking – and to his surprise, she offered him a tense, half-smile that seemed to convey multitudes, though she said nothing at all.

But he still hadn’t seen Potter. And by the time dueling club rolled around the next day, he was desperate enough for information, that he decided – against better judgment – that he really ought to attend and see. And, unfortunately, his insanity was only validated when the crush of whispers outside the classroom forewarned him of Potter’s presence; they rushed into the room with a singular excitement that followed the Savior wherever he deemed to go. 

Draco leaned against the wall and waited for everyone to enter first while he tried his best to compose himself. It had been over two weeks since he’d seen the man – would Draco lose it and do something to get himself fired? The frustration and hurt within him were matched only by his rage, and that made him feel twitchy – _unwieldly_ – like he might do something he rather regretted. 

Well, it was a dueling club. Perhaps they could just duel it all out; it was the only plan he’d had that made any kind of sense, after all. Potter certainly hadn’t reacted well to his other plans, like “levelheaded communication” or “attempts at apology.” 

Draco gripped his wand tightly and pushed into the room.

Students hushed as they saw him enter, but he couldn’t tell if it was because of his presence or the furious expression he couldn’t seem to wipe off his face when his eyes landed on Potter. Potter, who looked disheveled and tired as usual, but not debilitatingly ill. Not wasting away from some legitimate misfortune. He looked rather normal, truth be told – if a little weary – and that set Draco grinding his teeth. 

“Mister Malfoy?” Flitwick squinted at him through his glasses. “Can we help you with something?”

Draco didn’t speak until he’d stalked up to face Potter. He stopped several feet away, eyes darting to Flitwick for a moment before resuming harsh eye contact with the Savior. “This is dueling club, correct?” He didn’t give the man a chance to answer. “I’m here to duel. With Potter.”

The room went silent.

Flitwick’s confused sputtering was the only sound breaking the stillness. “Err, with Professor Potter, you say?” He glanced nervously at the man in question, who had foregone the wounded expression and looked absolutely livid. “Are you, um, feeling up to it then?”

A muscle jumped in Potter’s jaw like he was possibly _also_ grinding his teeth, as he seemed to fight with himself over something. Likely – the choice between brushing Draco off or beating him in front of a room of witnesses. 

His eyes flashed as he came to his decision. “Fine. I’ll take you.”

“Good,” Draco spat, feeling his mouth twisting into a cruel smile. “We never got our rematch.” 

From the look on Potter’s face, he’d picked up on the challenge in Draco’s words.

Potter drew his wand and dropped into the shallowest bow he’d ever seen – more of a nod, really – and Draco returned it with disdain. Flitwick was shuffling discontentedly in the background, but neither took any notice.

He nearly laughed – here they were, after all these years, right back at the beginning. Their second year duel was still so vivid in his mind: the rivalry, the excitement… It was no different now than it had been then – though a world of circumstances had shifted.

Potter screwed his eyes shut in concentration, like this interaction was _hurting_ him, and they hadn’t even begun. Draco hated that. He needed to know what Potter was thinking; he needed to know what he could do to fix it. He didn’t want to believe that this meant nothing to the man in front of him, when it meant everything to him.

“Scared, Potter?”

Those eyes flittered open, and Draco’s stomach dropped with relief to see the familiar light of defiance burning brightly within them. It took a moment, but his lip quirked slightly as he responded, “You wish.”

His heart soared with hope. “ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

Potter sidestepped the spell easily. 

“ _Petrificus totalus!_ ” Draco cast.

He deflected.

“ _Slugulus eructo!_ ”

Dodged – and still no attempt at a counterspell. 

“Come on, Potter! _Fight me_.” He couldn’t help the desperation leaking into his voice. This _had_ to mean something. It _had_ to. 

He’d rather have Potter slicing him open with Dark magic than ignoring him.

“ _Locomotor wibbly!_ ” came the unlikely retaliation. 

Draco sidestepped it automatically. “Really? The jelly-legs jinx?” His smugness was completely automatic, but it caused the pleasant side effect of Potter scowling fiercely and casting a quick disarming spell in succession – which he dodged as well. “Surely you can do better.”

It was the kind of jibe he made on instinct, but Potter’s eyes locked on his with something dark and pained. Before he could even reconsider his words, a desk to Draco’s left exploded. 

He turned, distracted by the noise, and in that moment, he heard Potter hiss, “ _Oppugno!_ ”

_Shit. Was that…uncontrolled magic?! Was his presence alone enough to drive Potter to that point?_

A handful of quills sunk into his leg before he came to enough to throw up a shield. He bit off a cry of pain, stumbling back a step before regaining his footing. It had been such an unexpected move for Potter, that he found his mind had blanked. For the first time in a duel, he didn’t know what to cast. 

Potter seemed to have no such compunction. “ _Colloshoo_ ,” he stated firmly, voice gone quiet with a rage Draco didn’t remember ever seeing emerge like this before. 

He stepped forward, and Draco tugged at his feet unsuccessfully, as the spell stuck them firmly and effortlessly to the ground. Learned experience and logic remained muted and distant in his mind – so frozen was he with shock, that nothing could penetrate the silent haze. 

_What had driven Potter to this? The Weasley girl? Had some other, terrible thing occurred that Draco’s aggravations were merely the breaking point?_

He was numb with guilt; and, as Potter approached him with that unforgiving glint in his eyes, Draco convinced himself he deserved whatever he got.

“ _Titillando!_ ”

Everything paused as Flitwick’s voice cut through the layers of pain separating them from the world. 

Then it rushed back into motion. Hysterical laughter bubbled in his throat. To his side, he could hear it rumbling from Potter as well. 

The oppressive cloud of prideful retribution seemed to dissipate as they surprisedly, then angrily, cackled under the effects of the charm. Unbalanced by the sudden compulsion, Draco found himself sprawling to his knees, as he still couldn’t unstick his feet to catch himself. He clutched a hand to his stomach in alarm, when he realized he could barely breathe for all the laughing.

It felt like a fishing hook drawing air directly from his lungs; the more he struggled, the more it caught and ripped at his throat. 

Flitwick was saying something again, trying to contextualize this unacceptable display into something educational, but Draco found he couldn’t focus on the words. He gasped around each unwilling bout of laughter, but it still wasn’t enough air-

“Please,” he heard Potter wheeze, “please sir…the charm-”

Regardless of recent anger towards the man, he nearly sagged with relief. He was far too strangled with noise to make words of his own. If the Golden Boy could convince Flitwick to end it… He only _prayed_ the man would listen…

Their former professor glared down at them, irritation playing quick and determined across his face. “Fine,” he said at last. “ _Salvio hexia._ ” The spell released, and Draco flopped fish-like in indescribable respite. “But you two _adults_ better behave!” Flitwick continued, his pointed tone not lost on either of them, Draco was sure.

He let himself sputter and gasp unrestrainedly on the ground for another minute or two before the humiliation began to set in, and he sat up and tried to slow his breathing while schooling his expression as best he could. Potter shuffled to do the same – though Draco forced himself not to look at him. Which was partially why he startled so much when Potter spoke. 

“Satisfied…with our…rematch?” he huffed.

Draco glanced up, coughing and swallowing a few more times before he had the wherewithal to raise a brow at the suddenly-teasing tone. It was as if a demon had been possessing Potter before and now was exorcised. 

He ran through several snappy comebacks in his head until he landed on one that was half-joke, half-truth. He couldn’t bear to be flippant after everything – not fully, at least. “When it comes to beating you, I’m never satisfied.” 

It sounded too much like a confession on his tongue, and he immediately regretted it; though, it had the curious effect of causing Potter to abruptly avert his eyes and flush a pretty shade of pink. 

“Yes, well, I think that’s enough dueling for one day,” Potter said in the most obvious misdirection he’d ever heard. “And enough laughing.”

He looked so painfully awkward about it too – to the point Draco couldn’t help but grin as the man lost his proverbial footing. It was strangely satisfying that, with a few choice words, he could so easily offset someone who had been about to beat his arse in a duel. It was exhilarating – but also deeply confusing. Potter was back to acting the way he had been with Draco before everything went south, but _clearly_ something had happened between them. And Draco wished desperately to understand what.

He refocused in time to notice Potter’s eyes dip tellingly to his lips – and any effort at speculation flew right out the window. The expression Potter wore – so obvious in its longing – caused Draco’s heart to stutter in a few staccato beats. 

_Merlin, if he still… If he had_ ever _wanted it, what could Draco do to convince him it was okay? How could he show him that he wanted it too?_

It took every ounce of willpower to resist leaning in and completing the caress Potter had started with his eyes, but he knew how tenuous this moment was. He needed to _talk_ about it. He needed to be disgustingly Gryffindor with Potter, if the man was ever to believe him. 

He needed to not be doing this on a classroom floor with thirty or so students watching.

“Potter,” he started, causing the man’s gaze to snap up suddenly to meet his. His eyes were wide and hurt and green. 

“I should go,” he mumbled quickly – moving to stand before Draco could get a word in edgewise. 

Panic flared in his chest. _No – no, this couldn’t be happening. Not_ again. _Not after he’d endured the past two terrible weeks of pining and wondering and cursing himself for his stupidity-_

“Potter, wait!” He reached out a hand to grasp his robe, but the man had already moved out of range. 

And he didn’t look back. Not at the words or his tone, nor preceding the _thunk_ of the door behind him.

**1 year, 3 months earlier**

The five months Draco had spent at Morpheus’ Miscellany had worn him down to someone he could barely recognize in that dirty, dimly-lit mirror. His skin was sallow and pale from the unpleasant combination of staying inside all the time and the prolonged use of cleaning charms in place of a shower. His hair was lank; his mouth was grim; and his eyes – well, they were the only part that had remained the same.

But that was the part that worried Draco the most. _Should_ he look in the mirror every day and see the same eyes that haunted his face when the Dark Lord lived in his house? Should the relentlessness of his shame burn undiminished in their depths – as if not a day had gone by since he had taken the Mark? Mother always assured him that time healed all wounds, but the proof of that lie loomed sharp and visceral on his face.

Things were not improving.

The weight of that thought struck him hard. Things weren’t getting better. _He_ wasn’t getting better. And his six months of suffering such ill conditions and indignity had brought him nothing but a swift end to his last scrap of hope. 

If he had fought so hard for _this_ , then what was the point of going on? He’d left home and started this journey on a devout resolution of change – but the _world_ had yet to change; how could he? If this was as far as his tenacity could take him, then perhaps it was time to give up and return to his fate at the Manor. 

The thought sickened him terribly, but what else could he do? 

It wasn’t like this job would lead to other shining opportunities – at most, he could work up his reputation as a shady, Knockturn potions brewer, and likely not even that, as he wasn’t allowed to be _seen_. That was nothing. It was _worse_ than nothing, in fact, because he was throwing himself into circles he had no interest being part of anymore. 

How had it come to this?

In the week following his realization, Draco tried his hardest to go back to work as usual – he slammed himself against the never-ending tide of potions to brew and unrealistic expectations to meet. He suffered Morpheus’ snide comments about his accent and slept in two-hour shifts to stir the trickier potions at intervals. His hands twinged and cramped as he worked, and his knuckles dried and cracked from scouring. But still, he persevered. 

But still, he failed to eradicate his doubts.

The unwavering sense of hopelessness could not be shaken by his obsessive focus, nor could he abuse his body enough for it to forget. He was trapped – trapped in his own skin, a place he’d learned in the war was a terrible place to be. 

Each morning, he woke with the conviction that he was going to quit. He sat up woodenly on the bench that doubled as his bed and got halfway to the front of the shop before he inevitably froze. _Was it really worth quitting now? What if things…_ did _eventually get better? Would he have given it up too soon?_

Each morning, he was caught at this impasse, and each morning, it was the image of his father waiting at the Manor that made him put off reaching an answer. Even if he did end up going home, he could never muster up the energy to face both Morpheus and his father in succession. 

Which is how he found himself at The White Wyvern that Friday night, having had only enough motivation to sneak out of the Miscellany to be wretched somewhere else. It was one of the only times he’d left the store – other than a few midnight walks spread through the months, when he thought he’d actually go insane if he didn’t. And it was his first time entering a pub since the war. 

Draco had never been to The White Wyvern, but as it was a little deeper into Knockturn than the Leaky Cauldron, he figured it would also be less conspicuous. He hadn’t bothered to wear a glamor – at this point, he couldn’t be arsed if the reporters caught a glimpse of him. The best headline they’d be able to write would be, “Ex-Death Eater, Draco Malfoy, Looks Miserable as Deserved.” Or “Draco Malfoy – Still Lurking in the Shadows; He Clearly Hasn’t Changed a Bit” – about which, the cruel irony alone was enough to make him scream.

He slid into a seat at the far end of the bar and thanked his lucky stars that the place was lit dimly to hide unsavory characters like himself. After a moment or two, he was noticed by the bartender – a harried-looking woman in her forties – whose face flickered with recognition, but thankfully nothing more; she took his order discreetly and slid a firewhisky across the counter without a word.

Draco was on his second drink by the time he’d relaxed enough to take in his surroundings. The bar was crowded – but not overly so. It seemed louder than the amount of people in the room could take credit for, but he was grateful for the distracting chaos. Several of the groups clustered in booths seemed to be wearing Quidditch leathers, which he found odd, though he didn’t think too much of it until he turned back towards the counter and was shocked by a familiar face.

About ten seats down was a large man with rosy cheeks and laughing blue eyes, speaking loudly with the man next to him. His hair was tousled attractively, though the man himself had clearly lost the matching physique of his prime years. Someone he hadn’t expected to ever meet again.

 _Ludo Bagman_.

Draco stiffened, remembering the last time he’d seen the man during the Triwizard Tournament all those years ago. He’d heard rumors of the Bagman’s gambling habit after that, of course – it had been a popular topic amidst his family’s “high society” gatherings at the time, those sharks loving nothing better than stories of indiscretion leading to a fall from grace. They’d really relished the bits about Bagman being hunted by the goblins (though there had also been that characteristic shudder of distaste when speaking of goblins, of course).

Draco was intrigued. What was Bagman doing here now? Had he somehow dodged his debts? He didn’t look supremely concerned about hiding – though, Draco supposed that perhaps the choice of pub was “hiding” enough, if his own decisions were at all similar. 

He hadn’t gotten any further in his ponderings when Bagman’s eyes roamed the room and caught on his, quite by accident. The alcohol from the two drinks Draco had downed seemed to sieve from his veins as he watched the man mumble something to his companion and then stand to approach him from across the room. 

As he came closer, however, Bagman threw on his most unctuous smile and clapped a hand onto his shoulder before Draco could move to stand. “ _Draco Malfoy!_ Now there’s a face you don’t see every day! How’s it going, lad? What brings you to the Wyvern tonight?” 

For someone who had spoken only to Morpheus for months, the amount of questions was dizzying. “I…er… Just getting a drink, I s’pose.” He cursed how unsure he sounded. He hadn’t always sounded like that.

Bagman tossed his head back and laughed. “Right you are, my lad! Every man’s got to go out for a drink now and again, every man indeed.” His eyes twinkled conspiratorially as he leaned in closer. “Even if society doesn’t think highly of you, you know? They can’t take that away from you, at least.” 

Draco blinked, startled by the sudden confidences Bagman seemed willing to pour out to someone he’d only met a few times as a boy. He nodded.

“Right you are, lad,” Bagman continued, as if Draco had spoken. “Right you are. There’s always places for us outsiders to make our own society anew.” He leaned back in his stool with the gravitas of having said something secretive and deeply meaningful. 

Draco bit his cheek, fighting to understand what he was referring to and coming up short. “I can’t say I follow, sir.” 

Bagman brushed away his words with an air of false offense, “Sir? None of this ‘sir’ nonsense, Draco, my boy! We’re all _friends_ here.” He smiled crookedly, and in it, Draco could see the vestiges of those triumphant magazine covers from long ago. “And as for _where_ , well… there are always places, if you look for them.” 

His voice was laden with smugness, and it was clear he had a hand in whatever “alternative society” he was hinting at. 

“Say, do you ever play any Quidditch these days?” Bagman asked, his voice turning coy. 

“I can’t say I’ve really had the chance to practice much,” Draco said carefully, apprehensive about where this was going.

Bagman looked him up and down in a way that made his skin crawl a bit, and then the man was muttering things like “hmm, no matter” and “you can’t have lost such promising skill.” 

“You’ll do nicely,” he settled on, forcing Draco’s next question. 

“Do nicely for _what?_ ”

Bagman leaned in again, his eyes narrowing slightly as he finally got to his point. “For the little games I’m running. Just a bit of Quidditch – a bit of innocent fun. Though, it can be lucrative if you play your cards _correctly_.” 

_Ahh, so that’s what this was._

_An underground Quidditch ring – undoubtedly with some illegal restrictions to make it “interesting_.” 

“You get what I’m saying?” Bagman pushed. 

Draco began tapping his fingers on the table before answering. “I do.”

“And? You interested, boy?” 

Draco took in a deep breath and sighed. _No, not really_ , he wanted to say.But he was at his absolute threshold with Morpheus’ Miscellany at this point – and he also had nothing to lose. 

That it was distasteful didn’t factor into it.

“Sure,” he exhaled, with an unconvincing smile. “Why not?”

**Present**

Draco was in a foul mood that evening after their duel, and he had almost made it back to his chambers from dinner when he was halted by a shout and a great shuffling of robes.

“Mister Malfoy! Draco, my boy – wait up!” 

He paused, face twitching at the familiar address so common to another jovial, egotistical man. Turning, he pasted on a smile. “Professor Slughorn. What can I do for you this evening?”

The man’s great chin wobbled as he came to a stop beside Draco and caught his breath. “I was hoping…you’d have a minute…to discuss something-” His averted eyes fell unsubtly on the door to Draco’s room. 

He bit back a sigh. He really _wasn’t_ in the mood, but he supposed he could pretend. “Would you like to come in for a moment, then?”

Slughorn nodded emphatically, relief visible on his face. “Yes, I… I think that’d be best. Thank you.”

With a flourish, Draco dismantled the wards on his door; they were extensive, and, therefore, hopefully impressive. He didn’t want to take his chances with anyone sneaking into his rooms. 

Except for Potter, of course. Though no one had to know he was already keyed into the wards – least of all, Potter himself.

Inside, he gestured to a seat, raising his brow at how firmly Slughorn shut the door behind him. “Please.”

The man flopped into the proffered chair gratefully, looking like he’d just fought in a war. Draco offered him tea, and he politely refused – though he looked a little wistful in doing so. “It has come to my attention,” he began, “that Minerva is trying to kill me.”

Draco blinked, deciding whether or not he was supposed to laugh here.

“Not literally,” Slughorn rushed to add at the expression on his face. “No – certainly not! I would never accuse… _Ahem_ , anyway – she has seen fit to declare a Halloween Ball to take place this year.” 

_Yes, and?_ Draco repressed the urge to say. He’d already seen the memo she’d posted in the staffroom earlier today. 

“A _Halloween_ Ball,” Slughorn stressed, “with a _decorating contest_ that precedes it.” 

“Yes, and?” he really _did_ say this time. 

“Draco, my dear boy! Do you have any idea how the students will interpret this?” He threw his hands up in wild gesticulation. “They’ll be absolute _terrors!_ They will see this as a declaration of war on ‘peace of mind!’ They will set psychological traps for each under the guise of ‘spooky fun’ – and the faculty will not be immune to these dark machinations!”

He felt his eyes widening throughout the fervid rant, and at the end of it, realization dawned clear and amusing in his mind. “Professor… Are you scared?” 

Slughorn’s face reddened like a ripe tomato as he blustered to dispel the remark. “I don’t think… I mean, I wouldn’t phrase it precisely like… You have to see, lad – I’ve been teaching here a long time, and-”

Draco fought not to laugh outright. “It’s alright, Professor,” he cut in. “I won’t tell.” 

The man looked caught between relief and indignation. “Mister _Malfoy_ ,” he admonished, “surely you can sympathize with my point of view.” 

And, because Draco was feeling magnanimous, he agreed rather than provoking him further. “Of course. Students can be cruel – an unfortunate truth.” As he said it, he wondered why he felt compelled to comfort the older man in front of him – a man who, for all intents and purposes, had disliked Draco since he first met him. 

Perhaps it was a subconscious flattery, since Draco wanted his job. But, perhaps it was also that he saw himself in that defensive way Slughorn carried himself. Like he knew he’d chosen wrong at some point and would forever be working to pay off his second chance. 

Nothing ever came for free.

“Yes, indeed,” Slughorn murmured. “Cruel – and also careless. Which is why I shall forego participating in this year’s festivities altogether.” He glanced up to meet Draco’s eyes in a rare show of acknowledgement. “I was rather hoping _you_ could stand in as Head of Slytherin for these events.”

Draco stilled in shock. “Me?” He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but as soon as he did, Slughorn’s eyes narrowed victoriously.

“Yes – who better for the job? A capable, energetic teacher like yourself would be perfect to guide the children through the Ball! And there’s been quite a hubbub about your flying classes already.”

“I…” Draco knew when he was being played – and Slughorn was _certainly_ using him to get out of these responsibilities – but like any good Slytherin, he fell victim to flattery. “I’m honored you think so, Sir.” 

“I don’t ‘think’ so – I _know_ so!” he assured. “Well, now that that’s settled-” He patted his knees with finality before moving to heave himself up. 

“Er,” panic began to set in as Draco realized the enormity of the commitment he’d just agreed to, “what are the responsibilities, then?” 

“Oh, Minerva will announce all that tomorrow. Nothing strenuous, of course – just a bit of chaperoning and coordinating, really. Can’t thank you enough.” Suddenly, he was a whirlwind of motion; he was nearly to the door.

“Professor – wait!” 

Slughorn turned to face him as his hand tugged open the door. “Yes, my boy?” 

Draco stared at him blankly for a moment before realizing he could think of nothing more to say. “Er, good night?”

A flicker of something akin to pitied amusement stole across Slughorn’s face. “Good night, Draco.” The door shut swiftly behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter as well as the much-awaited appearance of LUDO BAGMAN! (Much-awaited only by me, as I've planned this for a while now hahaha.) For those of you who are also fans of the Potterless Podcast, you'll understand why this is a prime bit of humor. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you think.  
> xoxo


	9. The Green Flash

**1 year, 3 months earlier**

Draco arrived at The White Wyvern the following week with great apprehension. It was just past nightfall, and he wasn’t sure what to expect – though, he’d brought his Quidditch leathers as requested. He’d had to write home for them, which had been an ordeal in and of itself. 

He wondered vaguely if Morpheus would notice his absence; the man lived above the shop, after all. But if he had, he hadn’t said anything – not yet, anyways. Draco didn’t particularly care either way, but if he could avoid a confrontation for the time being, he certainly would try. The man was unpleasant even in amiable circumstances, so Draco couldn’t imagine how the man would act if he actually did something wrong for once.

When he entered the pub this time, he looked around immediately for Bagman. For a few terrible moments, he thought he’d been set up, until he noticed the jolly man mingling with the people in Quidditch leathers near the back. He hesitated a moment before joining them. 

“Draco, my boy! Glad you could make it!” He clapped him hard on the shoulder, and Draco had to make an earnest effort to keep from sprawling forward. It was a gesture he was unused to – and from the look in Bagman’s eyes, he was well aware of that fact as he did it.

“Glad to be here,” Draco lied. “So, where’s the pitch?”

A few of the men in the booth snorted, and Bagman squeezed at his shoulder laughingly as he answered. “Draco, Draco – the pitch is right here! Or, well, not a pitch, really…” He leaned in closer, as if imparting a secret – something, Draco noted, he seemed to do annoyingly often. “More of an… _altered_ basement, if you will. But it’s big enough for our purposes. Yes, downstairs is where the magic happens!” 

“Or _doesn’t_ happen,” a burly man with hex scars chimed in. The men next to him chuckled, as if he’d told a joke.

“I’m sorry? I don’t follow.”

The man shifted a bit to face him. “Ahh, I see Bagman here hasn’t explained yet. No surprise there.” He swirled his drink consideringly before taking a deep sip. “They’re no-magic games. No wands, no healing spells, no _cheating_. You have to check your wand at the door – and if you fuck yourself up out there, then you’d best be able to drag yourself back up the stairs to get it before you pass out.”

The words sent a shock of anxiety down Draco’s spine. Quidditch games _always_ had healers standing by – or, at least, people with capable healing experience. To play so recklessly without it…

But he didn’t have his wand anyway. He lived _steeped_ in such vulnerability every hour of the day. People could hex him in the streets if they wanted, and he couldn’t so much as lift a hand to defend himself. Would this level the playing field? 

Or just invite more danger upon his head?

“What if you ‘fuck yourself up’ and don’t have a wand to fix things?” Draco asked, finding a shred of his former boldness. 

The man’s eyes trailed him up and down. When they reached his eyes again, they lingered, and something in that predatory gaze was reminiscent of Nagini’s glare. It pinned him down almost effortlessly. “Then you better make a friend quick who can.” 

He didn’t look away, and so, neither could Draco. After a few moments, the tension was unbearable, and Bagman burst in with, “It’s really not so dramatic as all that, Grant! No need to scare the boy on his first day. It’s only protocol, to keep things _fair_. Isn’t that right?”

The scarred man – Grant – flicked his eyes between Bagman and Draco, hardened amusement playing around his lips. “Are you then? Scared? This isn’t a game for the faint-hearted.” He huffed a laugh, taking another deep swig of his drink.

The barb drove Draco to stand taller, twitching Bagman’s hand from its place on his shoulder. “I had the Dark Lord in my house,” he said flatly. “It takes more than a little Quidditch to scare me.”

The man nodded, and he swore he saw something like respect bloom in his eyes. “I see. You might do well, after all.”

**Present**

McGonagall announced the Halloween Ball at that dinner the following night, and Draco was torn between feeling proud and nauseated when she announced he would be taking Slughorn’s place. On the one hand, it was an honor – he’d be stepping in as Head of House, a position that would reflect well on him if he performed capably. But, on the other hand, it was a lot of responsibility to heap on a new hire whom had only interacted with first-years in the specific situation of flying class. 

Would they even listen to him? Would he have to meet with them every day? Once a week? What was expected of him in terms of directing a _decorating contest?_

Slughorn at least had the grace to look sheepish about it all, but Draco was cursed once again with feelings of sympathy that prevented him from appreciating the situation with the full extent of his pettiness. Potter would be proud of him for his sudden magnanimity; if Potter ever looked at or spoke to him again, that is.

Draco glanced down the table to where the man chatted animatedly with Hannah and Longbottom. He was glad to see he looked less dead today, even if it stung to be unwelcome in that radiant presence. Lifting his utensils, he forced himself to eat more and look less.

He couldn’t help looking _a little_ though – every few minutes, he’d let his gaze land on Potter, then convince himself it was an accident. He was just used to scanning the room, that’s all. Threats could be looming around every corner; constant vigilance and all that-

He startled to see, this time, Potter staring back at him. The man must have been looking for a while, because he didn’t seem intent to break his gaze, even when Draco noticed. 

Draco scowled. Where did Potter get off, doing things like this to him? First, he ignored him, then he’d stare hungrily across the room, like Draco was a ripe pheasant, ready to be plucked. If he was going to look like _that_ , Draco would give him something to look at.

He skewered a carrot on his plate with sure movements and drew it to his lips. _Stupid Potter, making him resort to crass provocations_. He trailed it sensuously across the tip of his tongue, letting his mouth fall open slightly in the process. 

Under his watchful gaze, Potter’s face turned candy red. 

Draco smiled, holding eye contact through hooded lids as he drew the carrot from the end of his fork. He let his eyes flutter closed, wondering at the effect it would have on Potter. If the man was imagining a less wholistic scenario, like he was. _Merlin, he wanted him so badly_.

When he opened his eyes, Potter was scanning the room furiously, as if hoping amongst hopes that someone else would notice the scandalous performance that had unhinged him so thoroughly. But no such luck – Draco was a Slytherin; he was nothing if not subtle. He’d chosen his timing well.

Draco fought back a laugh as Longbottom spoke to Potter, and the man sent him one last vicious glare before turning away and responding. 

Oh, teasing him like this was gloriously fun. If only they could be on the same page about the meaning of it all…

By the third meeting with Slytherin house in so many days, Draco was starting to see this _was_ going to be an every-day sort of commitment. The seventh-years, sneaky bastards that they were, wanted to create the best horror house there ever was, while the first-years wanted caramel apples and maybe a few dancing skeletons. Their creative visions were at odds, and as their chaperone, so was Draco. 

Should he humor the older students, since they would surely take initiative and work on it on their own? Or would a responsible Head of House cater to the younger students, so that everyone – regardless of age – would enjoy themselves? He was several arguments deep, head pounding with migraine, and no closer to finding an answer than three days ago when this had started.

“Halloween is about _candy_ ,” one of the first-years was repeating for the hundredth time. “Candy and pumpkins.”

“Halloween is about _costumes_ ,” a fourth-year cut in with an eye roll. Her year was all about acting like everyone else was terribly _drab_. It was a phase Draco related to on a deeper level and wished he could return to without conscientious compunction. 

But alas, there were more opinions to be added to the pot. Fenn, who was the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team – and therefore the seventh-years’ spokesperson – leaned back on the sofa and snorted. “Halloween isn’t about any of those things, you guys. It’s about the permission to dole out absolute _terror_. The rest – candy and all that – will be available at the Ball anyway.”

Draco sighed. She _did_ have a point. The house elves were sure to put together a feast that rivalled any spread of sweets they could offer. And costumes were part of the dress code as well.

But could the younger kids handle a literal horror-house? Thinking back on himself at age eleven, Draco knew he would’ve hated it. Unless some cool, older student had managed to talk him into it…like Fenn was in the process of doing now.

“Think of it this way, William: it’s the one day you’re allowed to scare your friends and foes shitless.” Draco frowned at her language, but couldn’t bring himself to care enough to say something without someone like McGonagall watching him. “It’s the perfect way to get back at someone; it gives you an excuse to pull elaborate pranks without things ever getting too serious. People _expect_ spooks on Halloween – who are we to withhold them?”

Draco could see the light of interest sparking in the other students’ eyes, despite themselves. They were being drawn in. 

“We have a reputation to uphold as Slytherins. In all my years, I’ve never seen our house back down from a challenge.” It was then that Fenn delivered the killing blow: “Besides, I know for a fact that the Gryffindors are doing a horror house. If we want to win, we just need to do ours _better_.” 

This time, the vote was unanimous.

In addition to the added stresses of the Halloween Ball events, Draco had also received a few letters from his mother lately, that he’d begrudgingly forced himself to open. She had apologized – through long-winded excuses, mostly – and implored him to meet with her soon. Though he felt he’d really rather ingest a burning barrel of bees than do so, Draco wrote back in the affirmative, convinced that she would only become more vehement if he refused. 

So early the next week, he found himself across from his mother in a Diagon café, racking his brains for something neutral to talk about. And failing rather spectacularly. 

“How are…the gardens?” he settled on at last.

“Good,” she responded gratefully – perhaps surprised at his civility. “I’m cleaning the grounds for winter, though it will take some time before I can set up the lights.”

Ah, yes. The Christmas lights. As if their estate was still something worth marveling at during the holidays. He wasn’t shocked that she was starting so early; they’d lost most of their help after the war, of course. An undertaking of that scale could easily take months.

“What about you? What have you been up to of late?” 

Her question cut through his musings, and Draco eyed her warily before responding. It seemed that she was being civil today, too, from her less extravagant lavender robes to her slightly softened expression. 

“Helping to plan a Halloween Ball, as it turns out,” he allowed. “I was temporarily promoted to Head of House for the extent of the festivities.” 

She smiled. “That’s lovely, Draco. What kind of events have you been made responsible for?”

He took a sip of his tea, permitting himself a few seconds warmth from her praise. It was a pity they couldn’t always be like this. There had been a time when things were easy – or perhaps he just told himself that to get by. 

“I’m planning Slytherin’s decorating contest that will be judged the night of the Ball. The older students somehow convinced the first-years that it’s in everyone’s best interest to do a ‘house of horror’ in the dungeons.”

“Oh? And what all will be featured in your ‘house of horrors?’” She seemed genuinely interested for once. “I remember back in my day, we had parties – nothing as formal as a Ball – but there were always pranks involving Peeves and, sometimes, scary-story telling in the common rooms...”

Draco felt his heart clench at the wistfulness in her tone; it had been a long time since such light-hearted fun, for her. “We’re still deciding. One of the seventh-years is scoping out the competition first.”

“Gryffindor?”

“Naturally. They’re _also_ doing a ‘house of horrors’ – all through sheer coincidence, of course.”

“Of course.” Her lips quavered as if she were about to laugh, so she hid them behind her teacup. When the cup tapped back into the saucer, her face had smoothed. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with your rivalry with Professor Potter, would it? Though – _coincidentally_ – I’m sure.” 

Draco paused mid-sip, choking a bit as he swallowed. “Mother, really?” He dabbed at his face furiously with his napkin, trying to sublimate his distress.

She merely raised an eyebrow in response. 

“I am sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he bit out. 

“Oh, are you?” She signaled a waitress for more sugar for the table. “Then, I’m afraid I’ll have to elaborate: how are you and Professor Potter getting along?” 

Despite his best efforts, Draco felt a flush rising to his cheeks. _Damn his weak, pasty genes!_ “We’re fine, Mother. The same as any other members of the staff. Could we get the check, please?” 

“Ahh, but you and Professor Potter have a history unlike any of the other staff-”

“Is this really necessary?”

“-I just want to make sure you’re getting along.” She smiled, beatifically. “It would be a shame for you to start quarrels with a coworker in your first year of teaching.”

“We’re _fine_ ,” he repeated, this time through gritted teeth. _Merlin, how did she do this to him? How did she always_ know?

“That’s good, then.” She went back to sipping her tea, now adequately sweetened. Her whole being radiated triumphant satisfaction at his flustered, telling reactions. “So tell me more about flying classes.” 

**1 year, 3 months earlier**

Draco descended the stairs into the basement. He’d had no wand to check at the door, and the bartender had shot him a complicated look before stepping aside to let him pass. That, more than anything thus far, knocked into him a sense of foreboding – a feeling that Bagman was clearly trying to dispel, as he chatted endlessly on the way down.

“-and like I said, I have a vast selection of brooms ready, so you can test any of them you’d like! Though, between you and me,” he leaned closer to Draco’s ear than was strictly comfortable, “the Green Flash is the one you want to use. Newest broom on the market and most expensive too – but trust me, it’s _worth_ it. Seekers flying on those, well, they simply can’t be outpaced.” 

Draco had heard of the Green Flash – even confined to the shop as he’d been. It had come out only two months ago, and like its namesake, was supposedly so fast you'd never catch it. Like the flash of green light emitted from the sun setting over water. 

It would be incredible to ride, he knew – despite his nerves, his fingers were twitching to hold one, to test it out – but riding an unknown broom into a match also made him incredibly anxious. He was thinking about refusing when they hit the final step and a cacophony of noise washed over him. Then, his thoughts fell away altogether.

The room was the size of a small stadium, walls stretching abnormally in the magically-enhanced space. Players whizzed by overhead, and a cheer went up, directing Draco’s eyes to the hundreds of people watching – sloshing drinks and yelling over the noise. _They must have a silencing ward around this whole place_ , he thought dumbly as he remembered the open doorway. 

Bagman gave him a few seconds to stare before pushing him in the direction of the stands, where he saw a whole wall’s selection of brooms. He had to shout to be heard over the noise – and all he could manage then was a perplexed “who _are_ they?”

The former star laughed as he handed Draco a broom. “Oh, rejects, villains – people down on their luck, like you and me! There’s a whole slew of champions that the official league would never take.”

 _People who had ruined their own chances_ , he inferred.

“And think – soon you’ll be up there with them! I’m so pleased I ran into you, my boy. Absolutely _delighted_. Between your skills and your name, why I knew right away you’d be something special.” 

Then, two things happened at once: the snitch was caught in the game overhead, and Draco realized he was holding the Green Flash in his distracted grip. Before he could even appreciate the artful lines of its aerodynamic body, Bagman was clapping him on the shoulder and saying something alarming like, “You’re up.”

Draco glanced at him, off guard. “I’m… _what?_ ”

“Seeker, my boy! The next game starts momentarily.” He gave him a friendly shove that sent him a few steps onto the “pitch.” Draco spun in a circle, trying to make sense of the directive under the upswelling cataclysm of noise. The world didn’t feel real. 

Several players in his periphery were mounting brooms and making substitutes, and it wasn’t until he saw Grant flying by with a beater’s bat and a laughing expression on his face that Draco came to his senses and took off as well. 

He just hadn’t taken into account that he was riding the _world’s fastest broom_. 

It tore through the air like a stinging hex, and, in less than a second, he had to swerve the handle away to avoid colliding with the ceiling. He pulled to an unceremonious stop. 

_Salazar._

For some reason, he couldn’t get the image out of his head of Potter – the first time he’d tried the Firebolt. He’d worn such an exhilarated expression then, like it had surprised him into true happiness, and that was, oddly, how Draco felt right now. 

Despite the circumstances, there was something so blissful, so _centering_ , about flying. He’d missed it – there had been no cause, nor any company to fly with, since the war, and he now regretted that. Flying was baptizing; flying was dauntless.

Flying was _freedom._ How could he have forgotten?

The rest of his miseries clamored to drag him down, but this time – on the Green Flash – he was fast enough to escape them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all - and welcome to my favorite season: FALL!!! I find it so funny that the seasons are aligning with my story's timeline once again (just like last year when I was posting TNFI...wow, it's already so nostalgic)!
> 
> I hope you're all enjoying the bits about Draco's shady Quidditch ring past 😂 I said it last time too, but I've been having a lot of fun writing Bagman. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! See you next time.  
> xoxo


	10. Descent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w: descriptions of consensual (but unpleasant) sex between Draco and someone other than Harry (in the past); Legilimency (reading minds) without consent

A week before the Halloween Ball, Marla burst into the common room on a shout. “Everyone - everyone, listen! They’ve got _boggarts!_ ” She skidded to a stop in front of Draco, who was, at the current moment, affixing a zombie hand to the wall. 

“Boggarts?” he repeated, fumbling the charm and dropping the hand. “Shit. I mean, _shoot!_ ” Draco immobilized it, as the fall had jolted it into reanimation, sending it thumping wetly across the stone floor. “How?”

Kat skidded through the door after Marla, eyes sparkling with the news of their discovery. “They trapped one in the seventh floor corridor! All the creepies hang around there.” She sounded so excited when she said it, too, and Draco tried to hide his instinctive frown at hearing the location. 

Of course there were odd happenings in the seventh floor corridor. The Room of Hidden Things was still _burning_ , after all. Though, as far as he knew, it hadn’t shown a door to anyone in years. 

“Alright, they caught one – but what are they planning to _do_ with it?”

Marla started hopping up and down. “They’re going to make it like a _haunted house!_ Like you walk up the passage to the common room, thenBLAM! Your worst fear greets you at the door.” 

Draco ran a frustrated hand through his hand. It was actually… _clever_. Which was not what he was expecting from Potter. The man must’ve sought major student-input for that one. “Well,” Draco said with a sigh, “it’s hard to top _your worst fear_ , isn’t it?” 

“Not so fast!” came a call from across the common room. Without further ado, Fenn and her Quidditch posse emerged from the seventh-year wing. She stood, bracketed by two enormous blokes – Manny and…Braxton, was it? – beaters both, and it looked like a dramatic entrance he might see in a play. “Slytherins don’t give up so easily.” 

Draco opened his mouth to say that he hadn’t been _giving up_ , just acknowledging they had their work cut out for them; however, he decided at the last second that it was best not to argue with his students. Even if they were only three years his junior and had been on the team when he, too, had played (and even if he had always found them a little intimidating, if he was being truly honest). 

“What do you propose, then?” he asked instead.

Fenn smiled, allowing the light to glint dangerously off her lip ring. _Muggleborns – why did they all feel the need to punch holes in their face? He was half-surprised Potter didn’t have any, with their popularity these days._ When she spoke, her voice was devious. “I propose we beat them at their own game. Like I said before.” 

Draco gave her a flat look, which she met easily for five long seconds before huffing and gracing them all with elaboration. “We find a boggart of our own. We stage the scene in the dungeons. We pretend _their_ boggart got loose. Chaos.” 

The room fell to a hush to hear more of her plan. Several students came out of their dorms, urged by friends who saw that a meeting, of sorts, was forming. Slytherins were sneaky that way – no one wanted to miss a good bit of gossip.

“Alright, but who’s going to tell them that, if they’re just walking through the dungeons like it’s a haunted house?” he asked. 

Fenn left off gazing across her audience to fix him with a glare. “We’ll have someone act as their escort, of course. Preferably, someone who _can_ act. That way, each person or group is guaranteed to have the deadliest time possible.” 

“Do the Gryffindors have actors?” one of the third years piped up. 

“No, not that we saw,” Kat responded. “They just wanted students to cycle through as they came by.”

“This’ll be way better, then!” 

They broke down into excited whispers and new ideas, and in the commotion, Draco sidled over to Marla and Kat to ask them something.

“How _did_ you even find all this out?” It had been bothering him since the beginning. They weren’t his stealthiest Slytherins, for sure – though, they were possibly the _bubbliest_. 

“Tricked it out of a first year.” Kat winked. “Said we already knew what they were doing, we just wanted to know what role _she_ was playing in it.”

“Little Mary never had a chance!” Marla cooed with a smile, and, at that moment, Draco knew they had definitely been Sorted correctly. 

He offered them a small smile, his attempts at professionalism warring with his more mischievous natural state. “Good work,” he allowed at last. Because, really, compliments were owed where compliments were due.

“ _Ughhh_ ,” Draco groaned, letting his head thunk forward onto the library table. “Just kill me; I can’t deal with this.”

Hannah, who had looked up from her book with a startled expression when he’d dropped into a chair, burst into laughter at his melodramatic entrance. “What is it _this_ time?”

“I resent that implication,” he murmured into the desk before lifting his head a fraction to meet her eyes. “Students. Students are _killing_ me and _tricking_ me and…and they keep playing that _song-_ ”

“They’re tricking you? _You –_ the slippery Slytherin King himself? Do tell.” 

Draco furrowed his brow unhappily. “Yes…well, my opponent is seasoned and relentless.” He heaved a drawn-out sigh. “Fenn tricked me into acting in our ‘house of horrors’ type event.”

“You’re doing a haunted house?” 

Draco’s eyes narrowed at the seemingly-innocent question. “Yes. And you Hufflepuffs better not go stealing our ideas. Not that I think you _would_.”

“Yes, yes – we’re incapable of thinking even the mildest malicious thought,” she quipped, rolling her eyes heavily. “We couldn’t squash an ant if it crawled right under our shoe! But, anyway – how did she trick you?”

Draco drew himself up, trying to regain some wounded pride with a dignified sniff. “It was an ambush, really. Psychological warfare. She came at me in the common room yesterday, talking about how she had once dreamed of going to the Wizarding Academy of Dramatic Arts – how she was practically an actress anyway, despite not having any formal training, and that she would be the star of any production Hogwarts could conceivably produce (though we both know it won’t, given the ban on all theatre performances for the past decade). Anyway, combined with how she keeps wresting control from me regarding the decorating contest, I was a little irked to say the least. So I _might_ or might not have made some comment to the effect of ‘there are plenty of people at Hogwarts with rich acting careers ahead of them – myself included – and she’s not even in the top five. To which, she dared me to step up and act in the Halloween event, if I fancied myself such a pro. And then, like an idiot, I agreed – because I can never say no to a challenge _ever_ ; and the rest, unfortunately, is history.”

Hannah blinked a few times following the rant before shaking her head and responding. “Wow. That’s…”

“ _Tragic_. I know.” 

“Petty,” she corrected. “I was going to say _petty_. But I’m glad you could paint yourself as the Byronic hero of this story, if it helps you sleep at night.” She laughed, and the joy shook her whole body. “Tricked by a seventh year,” she murmured, shaking her head in gleeful disbelief.

“Oh, shut up,” he snapped, face flushing. “My life is already a disaster. And I keep humming that _song!_ ”

“What song?”

“That… _one!_ You know – the one all the Muggleborns keep playing on their godforsaken miniature gramophones!” 

A bubble of hilarity almost choked her on the way out. “Min…miniature _gramophones?_ Do you mean discmans?”

“ _What?_ No, it’s a… Never mind. Anyway, it’s that song that’s terrible and annoying… It’s about graveyard smashing or something…”

“The _Monster Mash?_ ” she asked, voice cracking into delight. “They have _you_ singing the _Monster Mash?!_ ” 

If possible, he felt his cheeks heat up even more. “Piss off! Is that a _thing_ or something? What did I do to deserve this?”

“’Is that a _thing_?’ Yes, Draco, it most definitely is a _thing_. It’s a popular Halloween song in the Muggle world – can’t you tell?” 

“Yes, but…it’s _annoying_ ,” he grumbled. “And they keep trying to rope me into dancing around the common room like a _fool_. That’s not the kind of music I can dance to!”

She smiled with a snort. “Well, as a Head of House, dancing around the common room with your students is your solemn duty.” She said it so seriously that he began to panic that it _might be_. Then, she laughed again, crinkling her brow at his expression, and he sagged forward onto the table once more. 

“Hannah, what do I _do?_ ” he whined. “All this nonsense keeping me busy, and the Ball is coming up, and Potter won’t even _look_ at me-” He broke off. _Shit._ He’d promised himself he wouldn’t bring up Potter this time.

Like he had any track record whatsoever of keeping _that_ promise.

But Hannah’s face softened a degree, and she patted him on the back with an air of amused sympathy. “There, there. I’m sure he’ll come around. It’s not like he’s forgotten you.”

“How do _you_ know?” he asked, wanting desperately to believe her. But he couldn’t afford to get his hopes up again – it was far too painful when they were dashed.

She brushed a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, seeming to be choosing her words carefully. “To be honest, I don’t think he could ever forget you for long. He’s a little…obsessive.” That it was the _second_ time she’d used that word wasn’t lost on him. “Not unlike you are with him.”

He frowned. If only that were true – but if it was, Potter wouldn’t run from him like he was escaping a curse. The man was attracted to him; that much he couldn’t explain away in waves of self-deprecation. However, the fact that Potter ran away _anyway_ demonstrated the gap between his desires and his rational mind. Even _Potter_ could tell that pursuing Draco was a bad idea. Be it his past or his family or his reputation, the reason was immaterial – Potter knew it couldn’t happen.

And the worst part was: Draco agreed.

**1 year, 2 months earlier**

Draco dragged himself into the dingy bathroom at the back of The White Wyvern. He’d taken a few nasty hits – from both bludgers and brooms – and he was reminded of Grant’s words when he’d started the games a month ago: “You’d best be able to drag yourself up the stairs before you pass out.”

Not that it mattered that he’d made it up the stairs. He didn’t have a wand to fix himself, and he’d gotten by so far only by avoiding the worst of the clashes. Draco was lucky, he was _quick_ in the air and on foot – but that hadn’t saved him tonight. 

He hissed as he pulled up his shirt to examine his side in the mirror. One of his ribs was definitely broken. _Fuck_. He traced the outline of the bruise, and the breath he took was jagged. 

Walters had knocked him off his broom on purpose. That much was exceedingly clear. But there had been no foul, no _pause_ , and Draco was beginning to see the reality of what Bagman’s “authentic” games really were: _dogfights_.

His back arched in pain as he found yet another bruise creeping up his hip. He’d fallen hard – possibly twenty feet? And he’d been going fast; the Green Flash had become his signature broom. He’d gotten used to its speed for the most part, though he was still adjusting to the momentum at which he could be knocked from it. 

Skating his fingers over another fractured rib, Draco tamped down a sob of limitless frustration. _If only he had a wand. If only he had his_ magic-

He closed his eyes and made a clumsy attempt at healing it wandlessly. “ _Episkey_ ,” he murmured. “ _Episkey_.” When nothing happened, he bit his lip and cursed his lack of practice. He’d always been shit at wandless magic – the only type he could manage was a decent bit of Occlumency, and only _that_ because he’d lived with the Dark Lord. He could possibly attempt the reverse and perform a basic Legilimency too – but that was useless by way of healing magic. 

“Malfoy.”

His head snapped up to look in the mirror. He hadn’t been expecting anyone, seeing as this was the staff bathroom for the players to use – entirely separate from the one for the pub’s customers. 

Grant stood outlined in the door, pulling it closed behind him at Draco’s gaze. “You want some help with those?”

Draco glanced back down at his ribs and the bruises spreading across them. _Did he want help?_ Yes – but nothing ever came for free. 

He gritted his teeth and nodded. “If you don’t mind.” 

Grant pulled his wand from a belt holster, and Draco felt a surge of jealousy so sharp and sudden that he nearly staggered from it. _If only_ he _could have his wand, he wouldn’t have to be left vulnerable like this. He wouldn’t have to resort to begging through thinly-veiled layers of pride._

Grant tapped his wand to Draco’s ribs, and even that slight touch made him crumple with the pain. “ _Episkey._ ” Unlike Draco’s pathetic attempt, he heard the bones clicking back into proper place. The man repeated the spell, drawing it across Draco’s chest and down to his poorly battered hip. 

Draco chanced a glance at Grant’s face, and the expression he found there was hungry. The man’s eyes lingered upon his waist, long after the spell was complete, and so Draco wasn’t even surprised when he reached out to grab it. It felt inevitable. He’d seen the glances, felt the heat of that gaze on the pitch, in the pub – he’d known the price when he’d agreed to be healed. 

Grant pulled him forward into a crushing kiss, and Draco surged up into it – refusing to become a victim of his own circumstances. He could enjoy this; he could twist this so he was the one who came out on top, even if only in his own mind. Maybe if he liked it, he would be able to forget…

The kiss was harsh and wet and meant only as a precursor. Grant’s large, scarred hands began peeling back his clothing, and Draco tried to lose himself in it. He was sick to death of feeling ashamed and hidden and _old_. He was _nineteen_ for fuck’s sake – and he’d never even experienced sex, never so much as _touched_ someone in that way. He’d never had the chance.

So why _shouldn’t_ he have this? This shred of feeling desired? The simple pleasure of someone’s hands running down his flesh? Following that logic, he knew he was doing nothing wrong; but he couldn’t fully erase that irksome splinter of guilt. 

“You good?” Grant murmured, and in answer, Draco leaned forward and started unbuttoning the man’s shirt. It parted beneath his hands, and the chest beneath was firm and muscled and also covered in scars. A _man’s_ chest. Fascinated, Draco ran his fingers across it. 

Clearly inspired by the interest, Grant undid the final clasps of Draco’s trousers and yanked them down so he could grasp him. Draco was only partially surprised to see that he was hard. He’d wanked to countless, faceless men, after all; though, more often than not, they took on a very _particular_ appearance-

Cutting off that line of thought, he sought to undo Grant’s Quidditch leathers. After a moment’s scrambling, however, his hands were pushed away so the man could do it himself, faster. 

“Have you done this before?” Grant asked, drawing his cock from his trousers and stroking it a few times to full erectness. His eyes were glazed, and he must’ve been distracted enough by the pleasure to miss the flicker of hesitation cross Draco’s unguarded face. 

He decided in an instant that he’d shown enough weakness to this man for one day. “Yeah,” he said, voice full of false confidence. 

Or maybe Grant _didn’t_ miss it, and it was simply easier to go along. Draco didn’t have time to analyze or speculate; Grant simply murmured “Oh, good,” and flipped him around to face the sink. Without any further prompting, he muttered a spell and sank a lubed finger into Draco’s arse. 

“Mmph-” Draco cut off the pained grunt that exploded out of him at the sensation. It _hurt_. He’d known it would – he’d read it and heard it said – but it was quite different to hear it than _experience_ it. 

He knew he needed to relax, but at the moment, that seemed almost impossible. 

The man worked him open steadily, saying nothing if he thought it odd that Draco was too tight and jumpy for someone who claimed to have done this before. When he deemed him loose enough, he lined his cock up, and Draco fought the urge to eat his previous words and leave. 

But the discomfort was matched only by his hollowness; his eyes were flat and empty in the mirror before him, and he decided that if it was terrible, at least it would be over soon. Then, he could say he’d _done_ something – something other than sitting in the back of Morpheus’ shop, bowed over a potion and stirring until he _died_ -

Grant thrust up into him, and the shock of pain drove Draco fumbling for purchase against the sink. He braced himself better for the second thrust, and his eyes found their reflection once again in the mirror. Flashes of dark hair and green eyes swept fleetingly through his mind, and, forcibly, he banished them. 

Ancient crushes held neither weight nor purpose here. His first time was _never_ going to be Potter. As many times as he’d fantasized, it had been an impossibility from the beginning. And if it wasn’t going to be Potter, he reasoned, then it might as well be _someone_.

Draco limped home that night, consumed by a kaleidoscope of emotions that overwhelmed him until he shut down. Apathetic, he burst through the shop’s front door, not even caring to do it quietly. 

After a moment, Morpheus appeared at the top of the steps like he expected. “ _You!_ Boy. You went out on the streets, after I expressly _forbid_ you to leave-”

“Shut up,” Draco commanded. 

For a second, the man was stunned into silence. Then, his fury coalesced into a tidal wave of outrage. “You _dare_ speak to your employer that way?! After all I’ve put up with – after giving you a _job?_ Worthless Death Eater scum that you are? I could’ve laughed in your face like the other shops you tried-”

“You _did_ laugh in my face!” Draco spat, spurred from apathy to anger from the ripeness of his frustration. “You laughed, and you _jeered_ , and you gave me a position in the back where you could use me to feel superior! That’s no different than the ‘Death Eater scum’ you condemn.” 

The man made a choking noise of disbelief. “Listen here, _boy_ ,” Morpheus took a threatening step closer, “I took you in when no one else was willing to do it. Did I like it? _No_. But I took pity on you-”

“Oh, spare me the bullshit, Morpheus!” Draco’s voice was sharp with venom. “You got a servant out of the deal. Someone to brew all your merchandise and bite their tongue at your astounding lack of knowledge. Everyone knows you’re a piss-poor Potions master, and they like my potions better – admit it! I heard Madam Wilkinson saying they’d improved significantly just the other day!”

Despite his current leave of his senses, Draco was no idiot. He knew he was pushing the man too far – Morpheus’ face was mottled nearly purple with fury. And the man had a wand, when he did not. 

“How _dare_ you?!” he exploded. “Why, I ought to-” he began, drawing said wand with a mad, desperate jerk. 

“ _Legilimens!_ ” Draco shouted, not even wondering if he could do it – just knowing that he _had_ to. 

Morpheus’ pupils dilated, and Draco felt himself sinking into them. His mind focusing on contracting and weaseling into those twin gateways. There was resistance, but it was weak – broken apart by chaos and fearful thoughts. 

And then he was in. He fought down his nausea at the sickening familiarity of the feeling, how Aunt Bella had drilled the lessons into him – again and again – until he slowly made some progress. 

He fought to regain his bearings, and then moved to flipping through Morpheus’ memories. His mind was disorganized, unsurprisingly, but Draco was spiteful enough in that moment to dig patiently until he found something. 

Faces and places flashed by as he rifled. The secret, he’d learned, was aiming his mind at the cluster that felt most protected; that was where he’d find what he was looking for. He forced his consciousness forward, bashing through the outer layers of defense, and-

Draco slipped back into himself with a jolt. “You never even got a Potions Mastery, did you?” He swiped mindlessly at the blood that had begun trickling from his nose. “Did you?” he repeated.

Morpheus’ face was slack from the pillaging. 

“You just stole the title from someone else, like you swindled them out of a store,” he continued, not even caring for an answer. That wasn’t what mattered here. “And once you realized it was hard to keep clients without good quality potions, you feared you’d have to close. Which would’ve ended things. But then, _I_ came onto the scene. A kid with no Mastery – and yet, still more skill than _you_ – and, suddenly, you knew _exactly_ how you would keep yourself in business.” 

Draco spat at his feet, noting that that, too, was marbled with blood. He felt sick – but also, sickly satisfied. And, to be honest, that scared him. “You disgust me.” 

He left Morpheus dazed and slumped against the counter and swept into the back to collect his meager possessions and the stack of letters from his mother. He considered nabbing some ingredients, but then realized they would be useless where he was going. He didn’t linger further. Mechanically, he unlocked the back door and slipped out into the night.

There were some rooms above The White Wyvern, and that was where he’d go. The Quidditch ring had already claimed him – both in practice, and now in a more visceral, physical way as well. 

It was its own prison; he could see that. But better to have his foot in only one prison rather than two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Chugging right along and getting ready for Halloween (both in real life AND in the story haha). 
> 
> I want to give a HUGE shout-out to my friend and beta [GallifreyIsBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyIsBurning)!! They went through and read all 143k of [The New Flight Instructor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20419643/chapters/48440609) and then another 40k of this story to catch up so they could beta for me regularly going forward, and I am infinitely grateful 😭💕  
> Give them some love; they are a superhero!
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed.  
> xoxo


	11. The Ball on Hallow's Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w: PTSD; panic attacks; fake blood

The morning before the Ball, his mother stopped by on a “social visit” – though Draco suspected it had everything to do with interrogating him about his party plans and nothing to do with the “sudden urge to see him” she feigned as her primary motivation. After an interminable sentence to tea, she finally left, making him promise to come by in the morning with news – which proved his theory quite nicely. 

Not that there’d be any news. Draco had half a mind to hex her for getting his hopes up, for hyping up the romanticism of such an event as a Ball, when he knew Potter’s avoidance strategies all too well by now. The man could barely stand to make eye contact for more than two seconds; he couldn’t even _begin_ to picture Potter’s face if he asked him for a dance.

Dejectedly, Draco began pawing through his wardrobe for an appropriate outfit to wear. It was early yet, and he didn’t need any particular costume for the “house of horrors” event, so he had time to choose whatever he liked. Though, his selection was limited rather severely to the few pairs of formal robes and suits that he’d taken with him from the Manor last year. In his childhood, he would’ve had his choice of any number of eye-catching outfits, but now he was grateful he’d managed to retain even these. Clothes, as it turned out, were bloody _expensive_.

He tugged a tailcoat off its hanger forlornly. There had been no occasion to wear this one lately – perhaps he could swing it for “spooky formal?” The theme was a little vague. Had it been “black tie with a macabre twist” or “costume party,” he would’ve known what he was dealing with – but, as it stood, he could hardly tell whether he was supposed to go as himself or not. 

Face crumpling ever more steadily into a frown, Draco rifled through his selection of ties until he found a somewhat crisp bowtie. He decided that he’d just dress to look _good_ first, and the “spooky” aspect could be added at the end. Spelling the tie orange, he set to work finding a shirt and vest to complement it.

After nearly half an hour, he had a fairly decent outfit together – lavender button-up, a deeper purple vest, black trousers, black tailcoat, polished shoes, and, of course, the orange bowtie. It looked seasonal, _fitting_. Maybe good enough to force Potter’s eyes to linger. 

He languished over how he could add a “spooky” element without ruining the integrity of his outfit and eventually settled on fangs. They were unobtrusive and simple spellwork, which was what made them a cliché, but Draco wasn’t overly concerned with his originality tonight. His goal was to seduce Potter – not win a Gryffindorian costume contest. 

Besides, vampires had a definite sensuality – both in legends and real life – and, with Potter, he figured he could use all the overt allure he could scrape together. That vampires often served as metaphors for homosexuality only strengthened the message he was broadcasting.

Draco smiled in the mirror, and the effect was positively predatory.

Slytherin House gathered in the common room a good hour before the festivities in order to start preparing. There wasn’t much left to do – most of their performance, after all, took place in the dungeons _below_ the common room, and they were sufficiently creepy without any decoration whatsoever. But there was a definite energy buzzing through the students, propelling them to show off their outfits and giggle excitedly between broken whispers. 

“Mister Malfoy!” 

Draco turned at the call and saw Kat standing there, locks fashioned into snakes that undulated gently in greeting. Her makeup was ghastly – green and decaying around blazing red eyes that had been spelled for effect. Beside her, Marla had her hair pinned up and was sporting a Grecian warrior costume that he could only assume was for Perseus. 

Together, they were adorable. And suddenly, he found himself wondering if this was more of a “couples costume” than a friendly coordination. 

“Kat, Marla – your outfits are great.” 

“You think?” Kat smirked and performed a twirl, which sent the snake-locks snapping through the air. “I worked for _weeks_ on this charms work!” 

Marla kept sneaking these shy little looks in her direction, and Draco felt his previous suspicions strengthening. When prompted by her friend, the girl stepped forward and struck a victorious pose that would have looked convincing had she not been blushing terribly at the attentions and watching the faux-Gorgon out of the corner of her eye. 

Her sword glinted in the green glow of the common room, and Draco snapped into teacher-mode – a mode he was only recently discovering he _possessed_. “Is that…real?”

“Huh?” Marla startled out of watching Kat. “Er, the sword? No – it’s not! It’s just spelled to look sharp.” She ran her finger along the edge before Draco had time to process, and he found himself instinctively reaching out to prevent a catastrophe. As stated, the blade did no harm, and she smiled apologetically as he withdrew his hand that hung uselessly in the air between them, embarrassed. 

_It really_ had _looked real_ , he mused grumpily. _Fucking teenagers._ He huffed out his wasted precaution and turned to survey the other Slytherins for potentially hazardous costumes – a task he hadn’t prepared himself to conduct tonight.

He saw multiple zombies, a few fake dementors, Veela-inspired costumes with vast, transfigured wings – even a first-year girl dressed up like Ginevra Weasley, complete with her Holyhead Harpies uniform. That one irked him a little, as a twinge of jealousy surged through him at the name. _What was so good about the Weaslette that endeared her so much to Potter?_

But the first-year was not to blame, and he forced himself to focus as he completed his rounds of the room. In the end, he only had to confiscate a few rogue blood-spewing tablets (which held the trademark branding of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes) and round off the points on a few horn transfigurations that would surely kill someone if the students were to trip. 

It was funny – he never would have considered the possible dangers (wouldn’t have even thought to _look_ ) before he had become a teacher less than two measly months ago. But since then, he’d seen countless incidents of childish clumsiness that had been both dramatic and ludicrous in scope. Like the time Jimmy had spelled his hands to his broom in an attempt to keep his seat, and not even Madam Pomfrey could undo it after flying class had come to an end. He’d ended up sitting through Potions and Herbology that day holding a broom, and Longbottom – with infinite amusement – had made him mix the planters with it like an ill-shaped gardening shovel.

No – children were not to be trusted with unsupervised party preparations, and the fact that Draco was saying that at twenty made him feel stodgy and terribly _old_. 

He was still stewing about the premature demise of his youth when Fenn came up and tapped him on the shoulder. “Looking good, Malfoy,” she said with a laugh, crossing her arms over a perplexing outfit of shredded black clothes and little metal bits everywhere. 

He rolled his eyes. “That’s ‘Mister Malfoy’ to you,” he grumbled – which only made her laugh again.

“We’re contemporaries. I was even on the team back when you threw your little temper tantrums about losing to Professor Potter.” 

Draco bit back the urge to snap back with something cutting and childish. “Oh, so he’s ‘ _Professor_ Potter,’ though?” 

She only smirked in response. “Ready for your debut tonight?”

“ _Yes_. Why wouldn’t I be?” His scowl deepened, and he was unable to stop himself from asking, “By the way, what _are_ you? You look ridiculous.” 

Fenn ran a hand through her choppy, short hair. “I’m a Weird Sister, _obviously_. If the Weird Sisters were actually cool and had female band members like their name implies.” 

“Oh, so this is a _rebellious_ _phase_ costume – good to know.”

She glared, and Draco had to curb the urge to cackle in delight. Back in school, he absolutely would have – but these days, he had to be petty _subtly_ , unfortunately.

“Yeah, whatever, Malfoy. Let’s see if you’re still laughing later when no one is convinced by your overdone acting.” 

“ _Overdone?!_ ” he hissed – but Fenn was already striding triumphantly away. “ _Overdone_?” he repeated incredulously to the apathetic chatter of the room. 

_I’ll show her_ ‘overdone!’

The first performance went magnificently. The brave clump of Gryffindors tore, screaming, out of the dungeons – and it was with infinite smugness that Draco sat up from the cold stones and spelled the “blood” from his clothes. The boggart had been the perfect choice.

 _Just wait until Potter saw_ this. It was better than his recent pranks, for sure.

Several of the older Slytherins had volunteered to take over as the “haunted escort,” but Draco was having fun, so he shooed them onto the Ball. Besides, it seemed a waste not to wait for Potter to come by – he’d be damned if the Savior was frightened by anyone else’s hands, and he wanted to savor the rare expression that would invariably cross his face. 

But an hour passed, and things were starting to drag – the students must have been trickling down to the Ball, having seen the other Houses’ “decorations.” Draco had been taking groups down to the dungeons almost constantly, but now he found himself sprawled in a chair by the common room, praying someone would come by. 

The waiting was no good. It made him deadpan and overanxious in turns, and his last performance had left him most unsatisfied – he’d started off too eager, as it were, having been delighted at the sight of a person, and that had altered the course of the whole event). 

The devoted Slytherins had come by again, and he’d updated them on his progress. They, in turn, had told him of the other Houses and brought him a pumpkin pastie from Hufflepuff that was to _die_ for. 

“-and Ravenclaw’s common room kept reciting Poe! And they even had a floorboard that popped up every few minutes to reveal an eye!”

“Oh, and Professor Potter must’ve heard we’d stolen his idea, because _he_ stole your costume back!”

“He _what_?” Draco cut in, utterly thrown.

“He’s dressed as a vampire!” Kat emphasized, wiggling her eyebrows at him. “Unless it wasn’t a ‘steal’ and was actually a _couple’s costume!_ ”

Draco felt his mouth go dry. _Fuck_. He didn’t think he’d been so obvious (not to anyone but Potter, at least), but if the students were catching on, he was well and truly fucked. Nothing spread through Hogwarts faster than a secret.

But also. 

_Potter was dressed up like him?!_

“Like you’re one to talk,” he finally managed – and from the confused expression on Kat’s face but rapid blush on Marla’s, he realized that maybe he’d been too hasty in his assumptions. Dammit – now he felt _bad_ for the girl. He, more than anyone, knew the pain of a one-sided crush. “Never mind. You all should go check out the Ball.” 

“But Mister Malfoy – _you_ haven’t had a chance to see anything yet!”

He smiled wryly, wondering what he had done to deserve such trust and admiration in his students. “I’m sure I’ll manage. And I still have time – get Max to come back and switch with me in another half an hour.” 

Nodding, they set off. And it wasn’t ten minutes later when Potter himself finally showed up.

Draco’s breath caught.

Potter was uncharacteristically tidy, in a sleek, grey suit that fit snug to his body. A green waistcoat showed off the narrow lines of his waist, and the white shirt beneath it remained open at the collar. 

Draco’s eyes lingered there, over the rough bob of his throat, and by the time his gaze hit upon Potter’s face, he was startled out of his reverie by two things: the man had slightly protruding fangs, and he wasn’t _wearing glasses_. 

The second point threw him off more than he cared to admit, as he suddenly found himself with an unobstructed view of those emotional, emerald eyes. 

“Well, well, look who finally got up the courage to come by,” he breathed – forcing himself into his role as the confident “haunted escort” rather than the “starstruck damsel” he’d become. He prayed his acting was as good as he gave himself credit for.

Potter blinked a few times, eyes darting up from Draco’s neck as he responded. “Yeah, well, unlike you, I had to work.”

Draco could’ve laughed in relief at the nonsensical response – it meant that Potter was at least a fraction as thrown as himself. “So…what I’m doing now?” 

The man huffed and crossed his arms in an embarrassed gesture that spoke volumes.

Words were getting easier for Draco now. “Hey, Potter – my students told me an interesting rumor.” He looked Potter up and down, letting his gaze slide fluidly down that delectable form. “They said you copied my costume.”

“I- what? No, I didn’t!” His blustering defensiveness was delectable, too. “I didn’t _copy_ you, that’s ridiculous!”

“It’s okay, Potter. I know you’re embarrassed – after all, ‘mimicry is the first form of flattery…” he trailed off, distracted by the sweet curve of Potter’s lips. The man kept doing this _thing_ where he ran his tongue over his fangs – clearly unused to their presence – and nibbling inadvertently on his lips. A trickle of blood was working its way down Potter’s chin, and it was _infuriating_ how desperately Draco wished to lick it off. 

Instead, he smirked. “But I think, in this case, the original does it better, don’t you think?” He swiped at his own lip with a pointed glance at Potter’s, and the man thankfully got the hint and wiped his mouth with a rough stroke of his hand. 

He blushed beautifully, color rising rapidly to the apple of his cheeks. “Yeah, well…I probably chose this costume before you!” he spat.

“Unlikely,” Draco countered, a lie forming on his tongue. “I chose this two days ago. When’d _you_ choose? An hour ago?”

After an outraged pause, Potter gritted out a “maybe” that sent Draco’s toes curling in delight. He was so pitifully _honest_. It was adorable.

“Well, _why’d_ you choose it then?” 

The question took him by surprise, though Potter’s poorly-veiled interest inspired him to respond as mysteriously as possible. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He clearly _did_ want to know, but, as usual, Potter only scowled and reacted defensively. “Not really. Anyway, aren’t you going to show me your dumb haunted house or whatever?” He shoved his hands in his pockets and scuffed his shoe on the ground in a terrible impression of casualness that made Draco’s grin widen. _Oh, wouldn’t_ he _be surprised?_

He welcomed Potter in.

At first, the man reacted with the same confusion as the others at Draco following him into the dark common room. 

“I like to watch the reactions,” Draco assured him. “Yours will be especially good, I’m sure.” He thought of his earlier fantasy of Potter clutching him out of fear, unshed tears glistening in his expressive eyes. 

Potter merely frowned and entered the room, inching warily around the couches and chairs. He paused at the open stairway at the opposite side and turned back, distrust lacing his voice as he spoke. “Here?”

Draco shrugged, letting him figure it out on his own. Giving away nothing that could ruin any surprise. He watched with glee as Potter’s uneventful first step turned him confident, and he stepped boldly into the passage with the ghouls.

“ARGHHHHH!”

Potter shrieked loudly into the quiet night, stumbling backwards and falling over in his fright. “ _Relashio!_ ” he shouted desperately until the hands evidently released him, and he scooted back in palpable disgust. 

Draco let himself laugh at the spectacle. “Your scream!” he crowed. “Who knew _The Great Savior_ ’s voice could get so high?”

Potter glowered so hard Draco could feel his disdain like a physical touch. Which was amusing, but also sobering, and once he was done cackling, he offered him a hand. After all, he loved irritating the man, but his goal was to draw him closer – not alienate him even further. “Come on Potter, there’s more to see.”

He realized his mistake as Potter hesitated, eyes locked warily on his hand. _Of course – why would Potter trust him with something as simple as a hand-up? He had done nothing to earn it; he was a loathsome, former Death Eater – nothing more. Why would he presume that Potter would ever want to touch_ him _-_

Potter grasped his hand rather suddenly and used it to pull himself up. 

Draco’s heart skipped as his thoughts fell utterly silent. Potter’s body was mere inches from his, the man’s eyes locked steadily on Draco’s neck. Widened slightly, like he’d realized something momentous. 

With the attention so narrowly focused on his throat, Draco couldn’t help the sudden urge to swallow. It sounded noisy and calamitous against the quiet. 

And then Potter was stepping back – down another step, head tilting upwards to meet Draco’s gaze for a millisecond before darting away for him to mumble “thanks.” 

“No problem,” Draco replied automatically, voice strangled and unfamiliar to his ears. Only as Potter turned to descend did it strike him that he’d actually been expecting a _kiss_. The intense pressure of that gaze, the way the world slowed to a crawl so he could feel each unwieldy thump of blood rushing from his heart. 

He’d felt that pressure before, and it had always preceded a kiss.

Perhaps Potter had felt it too, but he was dissipating the aura with humor, quipping now about the cheeriness of the Slytherin dungeons. To which Draco quipped about the favoritism of the Gryffindors.

“We’re not _favored_ ,” Potter argued, which drew a sharp bark of laughter from Draco as they reached the bottom.

“Oh, so there are _many_ things you’re oblivious about,” he couldn’t help but remark. “Good to know.”

Facing the ghastly stretch of cells before him, Potter drew his wand and advanced. Some students had gotten to this point and simply turned around.

While Potter whipped his head side to side, examining each of the pitch-black rooms as they passed, Draco spent his time examining _Potter_. The quick, attentive lines of him as he stalked down the corridor. The unwavering grip on his wand as he pointed it every which way he roamed. Draco imagined how addicting it would feel to be the sole object of Potter’s consuming hyper-focus.

They reached the end of the hall all too soon – and Draco lamented that it was once again time for him to perform. He stopped abruptly, heartened by how quickly Potter flipped to face him. How _attuned_ he was to Draco’s movements, even without looking.

“What? What is it?”

“Here…” Draco forced the fear onto his face. It wasn’t hard – after years of the war, it was a familiar, cold embrace. “It was supposed to be here…”

“What was here?” Potter’s head snapped from side to side, searching. “What was supposed to be here, Malfoy?”

“The-the others! They were waiting here, all ready to jump out and scare people who came through!” It struck him suddenly that lying to Potter like this was probably a terrible idea. After he’d taken his hand…after that little demonstration of trust-

But his trepidation was lost to the chaos. “What? How many people? How many… Wait.”

Draco knew without looking that the boggart was making its appearance. 

“ _Homenum revelio!_ ” Potter’s frantic whisper trailed off into panic as he realized the nature of his opponent. “ _Lumos maxima!_ ”

Now, Draco _did_ turn to look. He knew it was an invasion of privacy, but he was gripped with the overpowering need to know what Potter feared. What _was_ there to fear, after defeating the Dark Lord?

But it wasn’t immediately apparent; it wasn’t Voldemort, robed in all his maliciousness – it wasn’t a dementor like in Potter’s third year. It looked like-

Draco squinted as the figure stepped forward, and suddenly he _knew_.

It was Potter. Despite how incomprehensible the implications, Potter was staring into a mirrored version of himself.

But then the boggart’s face tipped back, and the illusion was shattered. It _wasn’t_ Potter – not _his_ Potter at least. This one was malignant and rotten, and smiled at him from beneath glowing red eyes. Eyes whose pupils narrowed to serpentine slits. 

Draco had been wrong – it _was_ Voldemort. But a worse version than any he could’ve fathomed. 

His shoe scraped on the stones of the dungeon, and he realized he’d been unconsciously backing up. Remembered that this was a _play_ – nothing _real_ – and he was forgoing his cues. 

“The boggart must have escaped Gryffindor tower!” he yelled, reminding them both that this was a _boggart_ and not the Dark Lord himself.

But Potter didn’t move. He seemed _incapable_ of moving, and Draco did the only thing he could think of to distract him – he continued his performance. With a wordless _aguamenti rubrum_ , he splashed his chest with fake blood and crumpled to the floor. 

Potter was at his side in less than five seconds. “Malfoy! Malfoy – can you hear me?” His voice was fraught with panic, and Draco didn’t even have time to be shaken by that before Potter was pleading, using his name. “ _Draco!_ Draco, what happened?”

The boggart must have been approaching, as Potter cast a haphazard “ _riddikulus_ ” over his shoulder, and the footsteps promptly stopped. _So much for Draco keeping his own event under control._

Potter was speaking again, pressing his hands to invisible wounds, his voice taking on a tone of begging that Draco had never heard him use before. “Draco, _talk to me!_ ” He wasn’t even acting on purpose now – he was simply too stunned by Potter’s hysteria to so much as open his mouth and respond.

“ _Vulnera sanentur, vulnera sanentur, vulnera sanentur_ ,” he muttered over and over again. And that was what finally snapped Draco from his silence. That Potter would attempt _that_ spell… That he would even _remember…_

He must have been remembering the bathroom scene from all those years ago.

“Draco, please,” Harry choked out. “Please, not again,” and something in Draco broke at those words.

“Potter – _it’s alright_. It’s okay.” He ghosted his hand over where Potter’s remained gripping his shirt. But the man couldn’t hear him. He was hyperventilating. 

Guilt rose large and jagged in his throat as he desperately sought to undo the damage he’d wrought. “It was just part of the prank! _You’re_ okay. Hey, look at me. _I’m_ okay-”

No good. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, like he was a million miles away. 

“ _Harry, it’s okay._ ”

Finally, he looked up. He wheezed in a breath, fingers clenching harder on the fistful of Draco’s shirt. “But-but the blood! It won’t stop.” He inspected his fingers with horror, red slicking them and implying the worst. 

“It’s fake!” Draco rushed to say, nearly fainting with a rush of self-disgust. Why had he _ever_ thought Harry’s pain would be amusing? “Look, I’ll get rid of it. See, all gone.”

Instead of looking relieved, Harry just kept prodding at the now-clean fabric – as if it was a trick, and the blood would reappear. “But the wounds…” he trailed off, eyes tortured and teary, breath coming in stammering heaves. 

“Harry, you’re having a panic attack,” Draco said as he realized it.

“I’m…what?” He looked lost. “I’m so sorry.” 

“‘Sorry’ – what are you talking about?” _Why would he be_ sorry _about that?_ He was clearly not in his right mind. “ _Bloody hell_. Here, let’s get you out of the dungeons.”

With effort, he dragged Harry to his feet and wrapped an arm around his shoulders to guide him. As they passed the incapacitated boggart, Draco flicked a containment spell around it in case any students stumbled down here on their own. 

Merlin, Harry was a dead weight on his arm. He must have been seriously messed up to trust Draco to lead him out. 

They clamored up the stairs, and Harry paused dazedly as Draco cleared the path of ghouls (mainly with some smartly placed lights and cleaning spells). He considered stopping once they’d reached the common room, then decided against it when he remembered students could pop in anytime. 

He didn’t think Harry would want anyone to see him like this. Least of all _Draco_ – so he wasn’t looking forward to that conversation when his panic cleared.

After leading them down the hall into the first available classroom, Draco spelled the door closed and sat Harry gently on a desk. “Breathe, Harry. Breathe.” The man’s fingers remained entangled in his shirt, so he fell into a crouch beside him. “Look at me.”

Harry, in turn, looked everywhere else. 

Draco sighed. “ _Harry_.”

The man’s hands twitched to the bridge of his nose, before he seemed to remember he wasn’t wearing his glasses. Finally, _finally_ , his eyes landed on Draco’s.

His gaze was searching. But whatever he was looking for, he seemed to find it, as he slumped against Draco’s collarbone a second later. Draco allowed his hovering hands to settle featherlight against Harry’s back and rub gentle lines from neck to shoulder blade, marveling at just how _right_ the man felt in his arms. 

Harry began to sob – more hiccupping breaths than tears – and Draco stroked him through it all until he finally began to relax. But as his breathing calmed, a new tension alighted in his spine. 

Draco wondered whether it was embarrassment. He just prayed it wasn’t regret. 

“Feeling better?”

Harry drew back with eyes downturned. “Yeah, a bit… What happened?”

Mourning the loss of touch already, Draco straightened his back for the unavoidable conversation to come. Seeming to notice his hand for the first time, Harry released his shirt quickly, shuffling backwards on the desk with a blush. 

“It…” Draco started, quite unsure how to continue. “It was just supposed to be a prank.” The words sounded pathetic and inexcusable on his lips. “We had a second boggart – the one from the cabinet. I hadn’t really released it, just stored it somewhere else, you know. So when some Slytherins heard you guys were using a boggart, we came up with this plan where it would seem like it had escaped and everything had gone wrong, because the ‘realness’ would make it scarier.”

He looked up at Harry, barely daring to gauge his expression. As yet, it was neutral. 

“Me falling over ‘dead’ or whatever was just supposed to be added drama. Everyone else just ran out at that point or tried to fight the boggart. It was a side distraction…I didn’t realize you-” _would care? Ahh, but that was presuming that he_ did. “I didn’t realize that it would bring up bad memories for you,” he settled on, at last. 

Harry seemed to chew on that idea for a while. “Well, it’s not something I would bloody well forget, is it?” he came back with after a pause. At least his voice was regaining a shade of its characteristic sass. 

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his once-again messy hair. _It was a shame – Potter had almost tamed it to some semblance of normalcy at the beginning of the night_. “Slytherin House couldn’t just put up some scary decorations, could they?” he asked with a tired amusement.

Draco huffed a soft laugh. “Well, no. Not when we had Gryffindor to compete with. I think…we officially won the contest though?”

Harry rolled his eyes and gave Draco a half-hearted shove that made him ache for more casual, friendly touches. Knowing such wishes were dangerous, he pushed off his knees and stood. He couldn’t resist offering Harry a hand, though, and was heartened when the man took it with no hesitation. 

Draco’s pulse flurried in his chest, and he needed to think of something, _anything_ , to say to distract from the stupid grin curling across his face. “Well…do you fancy checking out the Ball? I haven’t had the chance to see it yet.” 

He hoped he didn’t sound too pleading. 

Potter eyed him suspiciously. “Is it alright if you ditch your post?”

“I’m sure they can manage without me for a while. Besides, it might even the playing field a bit,” he said over his shoulder, turning to stride down the path towards the Great Hall. 

Harry made a snarky comment about what would happen if they lost their “star performer,” which Draco played into with ease. For once, the atmosphere between them was warm and softened from its usual animosity. He was so busy basking in it that he reached the double doors quite by accident and stopped, unsure how to proceed. 

Once they went in, they’d be _seen_ together. Harry would slip away like smoke.

“Malfoy, wait.”

Draco turned, hiding his wariness behind a quip. “Back to ‘Malfoy,’ am I?”

Harry blushed, and cried, “I was under duress!”

Despite himself, Draco let out a dry chuckle, charmed. “They say your ‘true’ feelings come out in times of duress.” 

He inched half a step closer when Harry looked away.

“It’s okay,” he continued – frustrated that the man didn’t seem to _get it_. That Draco could pour his soul out and _beg_ Harry to call him again by his name, and he still wouldn’t _get it_. “I _bestow my permission_ for you to call me by my given name,” he said instead, because jokes were all Harry seemed capable of responding to. 

The man scowled, rising quickly to the bait. “Alright, fine. _Draco_.” 

Even prepared for it, Draco felt slightly off-balance to hear it again. He was doing a poor job of hiding the hunger in his eyes, but – for some reason – Harry was leaning closer anyway, stretching out his hand to graze Draco’s cheek. 

“Hold up though, you’ve got something…” His thumb slid delicately over Draco’s bottom lip, and Draco was forced to question whether this all had been some absurd dream. Was Harry really _touching_ him? Reaching for him like it was the most natural thing in the world? 

His thumb stilled against Draco’s fang, and he realized that Harry had wiped a drop of blood from the unnoticed puncture there. But he hadn’t drawn away. And now his gaze was lifting from Draco’s lips to his eyes, and the intensity of it was captivating. 

Eyes locked, he pressed gently, and Draco’s mouth parted in silent wonder. His throat bobbed, and – _fuck it_ – he was leaning in now as well. Harry’s nose brushed against his, eyes fluttering closed and-

The double doors burst open as several students wandered through. Harry and Draco sprang apart as if scalded.

The girls looked at them with wide eyes before hurrying along their way, and Harry took that moment to straighten his jacket and clear his throat loudly before facing him. “Err, should we go in, then?”

Draco swallowed again and nodded. “Sure. Yes.” He hurried in front of Harry, fighting to wipe the vulnerable hope from his face as he went. He had to pull himself together. Sweep Harry off his feet while the going was good. 

He checked his cufflinks one more time before swiveling to face him. “Care to dance, Potter?”

It was a ridiculous request, and that was reflected plainly in Harry’s eyes. “What – here?”

But Harry was easy to goad, and Draco felt a desperate need to have _something_ come out of this evening – something more than a panic attack and an aborted kiss. “I bet you’re rubbish at it,” he dared.

Harry stalled, and the jack-o-lanterns floated above him, casting a soft, orange glow about the room. The skeleton orchestra celebrated, whirling traditional harvest songs into dancing tunes, and candy apples dripped gobs of caramel to the floor. But none of it – _none of it_ – mattered as much as the response wavering on Harry’s lips. 

“Won’t everyone see?” he asked at last. 

“How bad you are at dancing?” Draco countered before the meaning of that could sink in. Before Harry could see him flinch at the reminder that he was not fit to be seen with in public. “Look, it’s a dance – not a wedding. And people are already looking, so you might as well.”

And they _were_ looking. He’d been ignoring it as best he could, but the stares were beginning to stick as people noticed something unusual going down. From across the room, he heard Kat’s delighted, “See, I _told_ you it was a couples’ costume!”

Harry was blushing furiously now – somehow unused to the attention, even after all these years. Draco’s lips twisted into a sneer, annoyed by the way the crowd was affecting the man; only _he_ had the right to get under Harry’s skin like that.

“It’s okay if you’re awful; it’ll just make me look better,” he said. And _finally_ , he seemed to have badgered Harry enough that he submitted. 

“Fine. _One_ dance,” he hissed, snatching Draco’s outstretched hand from the air. 

He could’ve fainted from relief. The moment had turned into a test – though, for _whom_ , he didn’t know – but Harry’s capitulation felt like a new beginning. 

“Well, I didn’t ask for _two_ ,” he murmured out of cheek. 

Then, Harry sighed through his nose, whispering, “ _You absolute wanker_ ,” low enough that only Draco could hear. 

He smiled, stepping in and resting his hand upon Harry’s waist. The song changed, turning languid and waltz-like as they fell into position. The man was still stiff as a board – enough so that Draco leaned in and muttered, “Relax. And _do_ follow my lead,” by Harry’s ear. 

They danced.

Harry hadn’t improved much in the years since his fateful debut at the Yule Ball (not that Draco had been watching), but he found he didn’t mind. He’d rather have Harry stumbling into him than return to Hogwarts a master – having learned the ins and outs of dancing with some other partner.

He twirled Harry around, then drew him back with greedy fingers. No, he wanted to be the _only_ one to have Harry like this – to touch him readily, like he had permission. To lead him stridently onto a path which he would trust. 

To earn the _joy_ of his hands against Draco’s flesh. 

Harry’s eyes had been trained on his orange bowtie for a while, and Draco vowed he’d wear it every day if it had such power to capture his attention. When he glanced up to meet his eyes, his gaze was guarded, but hopeful nonetheless. 

Draco smiled, and it seemed to reassure him for a moment before the louder whispers set in. 

“-is he _doing?_ ” 

“Does he know he’s dancing with a _boy_?” someone spoke. 

Harry’s face closed off in an instant when he noticed the harmful words. The song ended in time with his realization, and Draco’s easy grin slid, liquid, from his face. 

“I’ve got to go,” Harry said suddenly. Arms dropping from Draco’s shoulders. 

He could feel the afterglow of heat where his hands had lain. But he understood – Harry was _scared_. If he was totally honest, he was too. 

“Should I…?” The recklessness of his actions began to weigh on him as the dreamy romanticism ceased. What would the students say? What would the _papers?_

“No, that’s okay,” Harry said quickly. Like he might just regret the whole thing after all.

Draco wanted to say something to comfort him – to promise nothing bad would come of this news – but he _couldn’t_. He knew too well that with celebrity came _expectations_. The papers might just eat them alive.

And by the time he’d had the thought to wish Harry a good night, the man was already long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my wonderful beta, [GallifreyIsBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyIsBurning) for a quick and thorough edit! (I finished this chapter last night and then passed out LOL). 
> 
> I thought it was fun that the chapter 11s of SIFLEOY and TNFI aligned, so it feels like the timelines are still somewhat on track! Anyway, hope you're all gearing up for the real Halloween (the Greatest holiday), and stay safe!
> 
> Thanks for reading.  
> xoxo


	12. Calamitous Orbit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w: some homophobic rhetoric towards the end (from Lucius)

Draco stared into the fading embers of the hearth. It had been nearly an hour since his mother’s letter had arrived, and yet one distinctive line kept playing in his mind: “I’m sorry, Draco. I’ve kept your father at bay so far – but this time, it’s just too much. Come by the Manor as soon as you’re done breakfast. He wants to talk with you.” 

He hadn’t had breakfast yet. He’d just stared into the flames, watching them sputter and fizzle out as the morning light lengthened. Through the dark waters of the Black Lake, it never got that bright in his room, only a murky, glowing green. But having spent seven years living in the dungeons of Hogwarts already, he was quite used to it by now. 

_How differently might things have played out, had he grown up in the light?_ Shadows had a way of clinging, and their weight had become ponderous over time. 

He moved to pick up his tea – which had long since gone cold – and paper crinkled under his wrist. His gaze fell upon the _Prophet_ and the article he’d been distracting himself from since the moment he’d finished reading it. 

_Merlin, fuck._ He was so screwed. 

He’d risked the relative peace of being ignored by his father, the only job he’d ever come to enjoy, and his own blasted _sanity_ – all for the sake of a man who could never love him back. Now, he’d be facing Lucius Malfoy within the hour and likely getting a citation from McGonagall – if he wasn’t outright fired due to Howlers from outraged parents – and there’d still been no sign of Harry. He rather feared that he wouldn’t show up today at all.

The man clearly regretted it. There was no other way to explain the look in his eyes last night when he’d come to his senses followed by his swift, silent retreat. Draco had been a fool to be drawn in by that almost-kiss at the doors. It probably wouldn’t have even been a kiss – just Harry leaning in to look more closely at his fangs, then leaning back and saying something perfectly clueless, like “Nice charms work, Malfoy.” 

Yes, that was it. He had imagined it all. Because when – in his right mind – had Harry ever reached out to Draco without reason? Not in order to save his life or cling blindly to someone in a panic, but just because he genuinely wanted to touch? 

The answer was _never_ – and it sat like a rotten weight in Draco’s stomach.

He would _never_ earn Harry’s casual confidences or be the recipient of such a caress. He was just a former “ **DEATH EATER** ,” like Skeeter had said. No one worthy or interesting or even _existent_ beyond an archaic surname and a long, bloody past. A clustered handful of the worst of choices. 

The sudden knock came like a gavel, condemning him to his nightmares. 

Draco pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. It was Harry. It couldn’t be anyone else. But now that he was here, Draco wished he could postpone the inevitable. It would almost be better if he _hadn’t_ come, so that Draco could spin fantasies in which they ended up together — where last night was a stop on the journey into romance, and not the disappointment he knew Harry believed it was. 

_Fuck_. 

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, counted to three, and opened them. Then, he opened the door.

It was Harry. 

“Harry? What is it?” He tried to stay as neutral as he possibly could, but it was hard, knowing what was coming. It was only as Harry’s eyes roved up and down that he realized what a mess he must be. 

“I came to talk about the article,” Harry said, and the irksome shred of hope that Draco hadn’t managed to crush yet puffed out in his chest. 

There would be no pleasantries, then. Just right down to business. “Right,” he managed. “Of course.”

“Can I?” Harry asked, gesturing towards his room, and the far-away logic in the back of Draco’s mind agreed that yes, they should do this behind closed doors. Less chance of Skeeter getting ahold of the inevitably kind rejection. 

“Right,” he said again, not sure he could bear anything more.

Harry ambled into the room, his personality filling it so effortlessly that Draco just _knew_ that it’d feel hollow when he was gone. It was the man’s first time coming in, and it was desperately unfortunate that it was also to be the last.

“Did I wake you?” he asked, taking in the rumpled state of Draco’s bed. 

_Shit._ He’d meant to spell everything clean before Harry came knocking at his door. He’d had the time, too, just not the motivation. 

“Huh?” he uttered, his mind catching on the nightmares as he looked at the bed himself. In one, Harry had even kissed him back before revealing that things would never work. “No.”

“Are you alright?” 

The question snapped him back to attention. Pity was the last thing he needed now. “Why wouldn’t I be alright?”

Harry wavered. “I mean…you saw the article, right?”

 _Oh great – the bloody_ article _again. Like he feared Draco might mistakenly think that he was here to talk about something else._

He waved towards the table, where the _Prophet_ still lay open. The man winced, and the waves of shame practically emanated from him. 

“Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-” he swallowed, and it gave Draco time to brace himself, “I shouldn’t have danced with you last night. I knew something like this would happen.”

Even knowing it was coming didn’t soften the feeling like the wind had been punched out of him. Everything was happening according to his nightmares, and the “ _I shouldn’t have danced with you_ ” echoed cuttingly through his mind. 

He dragged a hand through his hair. Fury was welling up in him, drowning the logic – drowning the pain. He knew it was merely defensiveness, but he couldn’t stop the words that tore from his mouth in the next instant. “It was just a stupid dance!” 

Harry’s eyes widened, and Draco fought to bring himself under control. 

“ _I_ know that! It’s not _my_ fault that the press takes everything so seriously-”

And really, it was astounding that someone could be so utterly blind to the main point. “I’m not talking about the press, I’m talking about _you_.” 

“What do you mean?” Harry demanded. “I thought we were talking about the article.” 

_Oh, the_ article! _The mythological_ article _that determined all their interactions hence!_

“ _I’m_ not talking about the article.”

“Then what are you talking about?” His voice sounded wary, with just enough genuine concern to make it seem like he really didn’t know. Like _Draco_ was the one acting insane, and there had really never been any signs of interest or flirtation between them. 

The longer he dwelled on it, the more he doubted.

But, unable to handle the silence, Harry went on to add, incomprehensibly: “I’m sorry if I’ve caused problems with your family.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Draco hissed. Because what did his _family_ have to do with this? Gryffindors were all clearly idiots, but this was a subject that decidedly crossed the line. Harry _had_ to know it was a tense topic. 

But Harry was talking again now, and it was obvious now that he _didn’t_. “I mean, I assume _that’s_ why you’re mad, right? I know I’m not the pureblooded woman they expected you to be seen with-”

Was he _mocking_ him? “How _dare_ you bring my parents into this,” he gritted out. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no idea about _anything!_ ” His breathing was coming out raggedly now – possessed as he was by his rage. 

He had expected a gentle let-down from the Boy Savior. But what he had gotten was anything but kind – if anything, he was being _punished_ for such presumptuous fantasies. 

“Why are you so mad?”

Draco didn’t have the wherewithal left to answer. “Just get out.” He wanted this to be over with as soon as possible. 

When Harry made no move to leave, he shoved him towards the door. “I said, _get out!_ ”

“ _Why are you so mad?_ ” the man yelled again, gripping the doorframe so he couldn’t be ousted. 

Which really must’ve been the final straw, because then Draco was breaking into hysterical laughter and cursing under his breath as he tried to speak. “Are you kidding me? You still don’t get it? I always knew you were thick, but this is really too much!” Harry’s confused expression drove him on, more furiously than before. “I’m not mad about the article, _I’m mad because you regret it_.” 

Harry froze. 

“I’m _mad_ , because every time I think we’re getting somewhere, you pull away and give me that same, clueless look like I’ve gone and imagined it all. I’m _mad_ , because I endure all this _shit-_ ” he pointed callously at the article that called him a “Death Eater” before forgetting to mention him ever again “- _for you_ , but you still won’t bloody _kiss_ me.”

The last part had come out quite unintentionally, but Draco was so far gone with fury that he couldn’t stop to feel embarrassed. 

“I’ll kiss you,” Harry offered quietly. 

“I’m-” Draco nearly choked. “Wait, _what?!_ ”

He finally met Harry’s eyes and found that they were wide and nearly as shocked and delicately hopeful as he felt. “Wait, you’re not…kidding, are you?” He _needed_ to know this was real. That it wasn’t a part of their game. Not another prank to bring him down. “Please tell me you’re not kidding.”

“Are _you?_ ” Harry asked, voice soaring high with nerves. And that, more than anything, gave Draco the courage to shake his head and confess it. “Then fucking _kiss_ me already,” Harry demanded. 

Propelled by the words, Draco stepped up into his space, then paused, unsure of how to proceed. They’d just been screaming at each other, moments before. He reached out a tentative hand, half-expecting it to be swatted away despite Harry’s words. His palm met the man’s face unimpeded, and he ran it down the smooth glide of Harry’s jaw before moving closer. 

_Fuck_. _This was happening_.

He dragged his thumb shakily across Harry’s bottom lip, like the man had done to him only the previous night. At the time, he’d thought he might die, and this moment was no different. His elation was so overwhelming, he worried it might end him. 

But if he was to die, it was going to be against Harry’s mouth. He ducked his head into the kiss, bringing their lips together, finally, in a culmination of that perpetual magnetism he’d felt pulling at him since age eleven. 

And Harry _melted_ into it – there was no other way to describe it. His whole body relaxed against Draco’s, his mouth warm and languid against his lips. Harry shuddered out a sigh, and it was so intoxicating in its loveliness that Draco chased it back into Harry’s mouth with his tongue. 

“Fuck, Harry,” he whispered, unable to remain silent any longer. It was too much. Too perfect. Too _real_. 

But Harry didn’t appreciate the momentary pause, as he demonstrated by leaning in and gripping Draco by the base of his neck. They kissed feverishly, hands sliding and grasping, and Draco moved against him blindly until they were knocking against the wall. 

Harry made a small sound in his throat, and Draco followed it – pressing desperate kisses from his jaw to his collarbone. The man’s head fell back in pleasure, and Draco nearly combusted with delight. 

“You like that, Harry?” he couldn’t help asking, gratified when Harry only managed to bite his lip and nod. “Fuck,” he repeated, falling back to Harry’s neck with reckless abandon.

He bit and sucked and lapped at the growing bruises, thoughts gone, body on autopilot. He was kissing _Harry Potter_. Finally. After all these years. 

He glanced up at Harry’s face, suddenly wanting to see the expression there, and he felt the man’s breath stutter when he did. “Draco, I…” His voice was thick, wanting. 

Draco kissed him savagely, undone by just the look in his eyes. 

And then he froze as he remembered something awful. “Fuck, we can’t… I mean, not right _now_. My parents-”

Harry, who’d looked dazed when he’d drawn away, snapped quite suddenly into lucidity. “What’ve _your parents_ got to do with this?” 

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and cursed softly under his breath. “You were right,” he said at last. “They _are_ mad about this. About the article. And I said I’d come over this morning and talk with them.”

Harry grabbed him by the shoulders. “So do it later!” 

Draco bit the inside of his cheek, wondering sardonically how many things his father would steal from him in his life. Judging by his timing now, he clearly wasn’t past it. “Harry, Harry,” he said, savoring the taste of that name upon his tongue, “you clearly have no idea what they’re like. If I don’t go, my mother will show up at my door in a few minutes. And I’d rather not have _this_ -” he gestured towards Harry, his swollen lips, _all_ of him – “be tainted by _that_.” 

In all honesty, though, it wasn’t his _mother_ he was worried about. 

“So – what?” Harry growled. “You kiss me once, and then you’re going to leave me here pining after you? Like I’ve been doing for weeks?”

And _that_ startled Draco neatly out of his worries of visiting his parents. “Have you really?” he asked, and Harry’s avoidance of eye contact thereafter spoke volumes that the man himself did not. 

“Maybe,” he said at last, with just enough cheek to make Draco reach out and cup his face while smiling radiantly. It was cheesy, he knew – but for once, he couldn’t help it.

Harry’s petulance softened, and he leaned in for another quick kiss before drawing away with a sigh. “Fine. Go on! Talk to your parents.” He met Draco’s eyes. “But I better see you at dinner.”

Draco stood, grinning like a loon. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said – and he wouldn’t. Not for anything in the world.

His humor had mostly faded by the time he reached the Manor, but there were traces of it left in his system – enough so that, having kept a perfectly neutral expression for the past few minutes, he suddenly broke into a smile remembering Harry’s adorable incredulousness when he’d said he had to leave. The next few moments, of course, were inevitably spent rearranging his face so that his parents could read nothing of the events that had transpired – and, in that way, they could belong to no one but him.

With a final sigh, he pushed open the front door. 

Roddy appeared in an instant, tripping over himself in a rush to take Draco’s light coat and gloves. “Master is late!” he grumbled, practically shoving him towards the drawing room. _Salazar, he hadn’t missed this_.

With effort, he extracted himself from Roddy’s grip and walked, even-paced, down the hall. He refused to be escorted around what had once been his own home. He had moved past the boy who hesitated on the doorstep, unsure of whether or not he should knock – now, if they called him here, they should bloody well be ready when he came. 

He stormed into the drawing room and felt the slightest jolt of satisfaction when shock flickered across his father’s face at the entrance. “Mother. Father.” He nodded at each in succession. 

“Draco,” his mother responded, rising to wrap him in her customary embrace. He endured it, preferring this to his father’s customary disappointment. 

“For heaven’s sake – don’t _console_ the boy,” Lucius sneered. “It’s his fault we’re all in this mess.”

Mother set her mouth in a firm, thin line. 

“As for you,” he pointed at Draco, “sit.” 

Every time he came here, Draco promised himself that he’d be strong – that _this_ was the time he’d stand up to his father and lay it all out there. But every time, he found himself obeying out of sheer exhaustion. He had used up all his courage in throwing open the door.

And his father would never understand. No matter how many words he used to explain.

“ _What_ ,” Lucius started, laying the now-familiar _Prophet_ on the table, “is the meaning of this?”

From his seat at the table that he’d sank into, Draco merely stared. It was his father’s cue to continue – which was what he was looking for, anyway. A reason to continue berating him.

“See, this is your problem, Draco – you’re _weak_. I tried to tell you a year ago, and I’m trying to tell you now. You’re weak and illogical and needlessly rebellious against the only people on your side. The world has been cruel to us, yes, but you let your imagination carry you away to some world in which the shining ‘Boy Savior’ can also save _you_. You’ve confused pity with affection and muddled it in _perversion_. It’s disgraceful. And if my father was still alive, why he’d-”

“-still be mixing up his teeth-cleaning and bubblehead charms,” Narcissa cut in with a pointed look at her husband. “Being old does not make us wise, Lucius.” 

He scowled at her briefly before turning his ire back upon Draco. “When I first read the article this morning, I couldn’t even come up with a plausible explanation for what I was seeing. But now, I understand exactly what’s going on here. You’re doing this to _get back at me._ You surely think I was _unfair_ to you, and by hopelessly pursuing my enemy, you’re attempting to make a fool of me! ‘Oh, look – there’s Lucius’ son,’ they’ll say, ‘running headlong into the wake of Harry Potter’s press. How low the Malfoys have stooped! Their line has produced only felons and _shirtlifters_. They’ve lost everything but their ambition.’”

Throughout the rant, his eyes grew wilder, his motions more emphatic. At the end of it, he stood panting, wasted body no longer able to keep up with his rage. Azkaban had trimmed the edges off his father, leaving him sharper and frailer than ever before.

But his pride forbade the very possibility of pity. And he was still enough of an arse to keep Draco from feeling sorry for him.

“I’m not doing this for _you_ ,” he said at last, sounding defensive even though it was true.

Which was exactly what his father was relying on. The more diminutive Draco felt, the better chance Lucius had of crushing him. “Denial – another small rebellion among larger travesties. I’m warning you, Draco: if you continue to defy me like this, there will be consequences. You can go on deluding yourself, but you can never delude _me_.”

By the time Draco returned to Hogwarts that evening, he was doused in misery and a sense of hopelessness that sounded like his slow steps across the grounds. Even a year after disowning Draco for being gay, his father still seemed to be in denial that it was true. He treated Draco’s sexuality as both a choice and a _slight_ and remained totally convinced that Harry was some temporary fancy born of revenge. 

It was infuriating. Made more so, even, because Draco was unwilling to divulge his actual feelings in front of his father. Thus, it became an impasse.

He strolled into the Great Hall, distracted and late, but when his eyes landed upon Harry, the man was already beaming up at him. Draco felt something crack and melt inside of him. 

_This_ was what Lucius Malfoy would never understand – this upswell of joy and frustration and _love_ that defined every foray into Harry’s mere orbit. It was instantaneous and calamitous and shook Draco right to his core. 

He smiled back, and with that, took his seat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry for the chapter being so late this week - I'm really trying to stick to an "every two weeks" schedule, but sometimes it's just not possible. But I wanted to get this up before the election, because that is a day that certainly demands everyone's full attention (if you live in the U.S.). 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter - thanks again to my wonderful beta [GallifreyIsBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyIsBurning) for helping me out last-minute (as always LOL)! And thanks to you all for reading.  
> xoxo


	13. Heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w: more flashbacks to consensual yet uncomfortable sex (not with Harry) and some unnegotiated pain-play in the first section; (later), blowjobs and handjobs in the "present"

**1 year, 1 month earlier**

Despite his continued misgivings, Draco’s life fell into a tidy routine at The White Wyvern. In the mornings, he’d wake and be served breakfast downstairs by Gloria – the older woman who’d eyed him worriedly from the bar the first night he’d arrived. She looked at him no differently now, their pleasant (if not overly long) exchanges colored by her obvious discontent and not-insignificant pity.

After breakfast, Draco would descend to the pitch, where players could train until the games started in the late evening. There, he’d practice his dives and rolls for hours at a time – to the point he once realized he might even beat _Potter_ in a match, given a fair chance. 

He’d crushed those thoughts quickly, before they could grow.

Following his long training sessions, Draco would return upstairs for some supper before gearing up for his match. Bagman would usually give him some kind of pep talk, telling him which players not to check or how many minutes he should let the snitch escape before getting serious; all of it related directly to the man’s nightly bets. That was their deal – Draco flew exclusively for him, and so he earned a cut of Bagman’s winnings. _His_ portion barely paid for his room and the occasional drink, but at least it was livable, for now. It kept him away from the Manor, anyway.

After the games, Draco would drag himself upstairs, in various states of injury, to the staff bathroom. To _Grant_ , who’d become a part of his routine as much as anything else had. Grant, who had taken to fucking him several times a week – sometimes alone, sometimes with friends – and Draco complied, feeling too hollow inside to say anything but “okay.” 

Draco hadn’t finished the first time they had sex. The second time, he had; the third time, he hadn’t; and by the fourth or fifth time, he’d learned enough about losing himself in the sensation to come at the appropriate moment. 

Grant had a firm grip and a commanding presence that Draco tried his best to view as attractive rather than overbearing. He was gruff and expectant, and he’d developed a habit of waiting as long into their hookups to heal Draco as he could. It’d started with something small – just a bruise on his side that Grant had forgotten and that Draco had reasoned he merely hadn’t seen. The next time, it’d been the hungry look in his eye as he ran his finger over a scrape on Draco’s cheek before healing it; he’d realized _then_ that it was intentional.

Tonight, he’d fucked Draco over the sinks to completion before fixing the broken ribs. 

Another worrying habit Grant had developed was the way his eyes would linger on Draco’s Dark Mark. The first time he’d seen it, he’d been fascinated, but his interest hadn’t waned quickly, as Draco had hoped it would. In the times since then, Draco had caught his eyes grazing over it in the mirror and, sometimes, even repositioning his thrusts so that he could see. Once – and only once – Grant had noticed Draco watching him and leaned down to whisper in his ear, “You and me are the same.” 

The sentiment had startled Draco into showering for nearly an hour after he’d gone, unable to scrub away the shame prickling at his flesh. 

But at least with Grant he could tell it came from a place of commiseration – a self-martyrized call of “the world isn’t fair to those who stray outside the lines.” With Grant’s _friends_ , however, this was not necessarily the case. After long games – mostly the ones Draco won – he’d often retreat upstairs to find not only Grant but a handful of other players waiting for him. These were the kinds of men who often felt no shame in praising the Dark Lord – or, conversely, believed that Draco’s past lent him an edge of danger that would feel glorious to conquer and control. 

Either way, the sex was rough and quick. Once, when he was drunk, Grant admitted to inviting more players from losing teams because “they had more aggression to work out against him,” which always “made it more fun.” 

Draco had grown weary. He’d grown weary of the sex and all the betting. More than anything, he wanted his magic back. If he could last a little over three more months, then he’d have made it; his sentence would end, and he’d get his wand back. But three months stretched like an eternity before him. 

Frankly, it was pitiful that he’d tired of his freedom already. He’d railed so hard against his father for so long that he’d thought he would feel better after the culminating disownment earlier this month. 

His father, as it turned out, had caught wind of his illicit Quidditch dealings – but, more importantly, his illicit dealings with _men_. (As expected, the dicey men who’d fucked him couldn’t keep their traps shut about bagging a fallen aristocrat.) It had ended, as always, in a fight. One in which Lucius had hurled insults about his son’s reputation, and Draco had reiterated that his father would just never _understand_. His mother, ever the voice of compromise, had stood solidly in the middle – but even she hadn’t been enough to mitigate things. Draco had pushed his father’s patience too far this time. He’d been disowned.

Remembering their argument now, Draco was astounded by his former naiveté. It had been less than a month ago – really only a few weeks – and he’d already tired of the sex and the men he’d thought would release him. For so long, he’d felt crushed into an unsuitable mold and believed that cracking it open would unleash him. 

So far, he’d felt none of the catharsis. He’d only felt worn down and disappointed – and, _tonight_ , barely healed before the new bruises began to form. 

And so, he got to thinking. If the “him” that he’d fought so hard to bring into the world was still unhappy, maybe Father was right about him after all.

**Present**

Flirting with Harry was so much better now that he knew they were on the same page. It was effortless – he didn’t even have to _try_ ; he just had to sit there, and Harry came up with strange and flirtatious interpretations of Draco’s actions on his own. Like when he urged Draco not to fellate his bangers and mash at dinner, when it hadn’t even been on his mind (this time, at least). 

Regardless, it felt wonderful to turn his back on the thin line he’d been walking between showing interest and defensively retreating. He could brush his leg against Harry’s under the table and know that it was welcome. He could look into his eyes and release that idiotic grin that he’d been prone to since this morning’s desperate kiss. 

Merlin, he’d even sent Harry a couple of _winks_ over the course of the meal. So, he knew that he was doomed. 

In fact, he was so deeply focused on the story being written between his and Harry’s glances that he hardly noticed McGonagall announcing the results of the decoration contest, and it was only the loud cheer from Hufflepuff table that startled him from his overly-invested analysis of the shape of Harry’s ears. 

“…As such, Slytherin has lost ten points for purposefully endangering the student body. Just because there are chaperones present does _not_ mean that provoking Devil’s Snare is a harmless endeavor. Ryan and Nathaniel will be serving detention with me, starting tomorrow after the match.” 

_Oh, fuck. That_ caught his attention. He’d have to speak with his students later about what kinds of pranks were acceptable and funny – and which ones crossed the line. Third-years had no sense for these kinds of things. (Though Draco comforted himself with the thought that, if anyone had been _seriously_ injured, he would surely have heard before now.) 

McGonagall finished her speech and dismissed everyone, but when he glanced up, he saw her coming straight for him. 

Shit – this was where she told him he was too irresponsible to ever play ‘Head of House’ again. Too irresponsible to be a teacher, maybe. Or, possibly, that the latest articles were just more attention than she was willing to tolerate him drawing to their staff.He busied himself with standing, attention split between whatever Harry was saying and his own impending doom.

“Mister Malfoy – a word, if you please?”

He turned. “Yes, Headmistress?” He only prayed that, if she was going to dismiss him, she wouldn’t do so in front of Harry. He didn’t think he could bear that indignity.

“I wish to discuss some Quidditch matters with you, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

Draco nearly melted with relief – though there was still an edge to her tone that suggested that there was more than what she was saying. Before he could answer, though, Harry cut in incredulously: “But Minerva – surely that can wait? I have, err, _matters_ to discuss with Malfoy as well.” 

Which was really…quite a bit more transparent than Harry had clearly intended. Draco glowed a bit with pleasant embarrassment. 

McGonagall merely raised a brow and ignored the obvious implications. “I’m afraid not, Harry. The first game of the season is tomorrow – as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

Draco could feel Harry tensing beside him, frustration clearly warring with his Gryffindorish sense of responsibility. “Oh, of course,” he gritted out eventually. “How silly of me. I’d hate to keep our Quidditch coach from doing his job.” He faked a laugh, and it was so stilted that it took every bit of willpower in Draco not to laugh at him in earnest. “Will that, er, take long?”

McGonagall’s lip twitched in amusement, too, and it comforted Draco that she found Harry’s antics humorous rather than distasteful. But she schooled her expression quickly and responded with a perfectly neutral face. “I’m afraid we have a fair amount to discuss regarding safety measures and getting the pitch in order. It’s probably best if you reconvened to address _your_ matters tomorrow after the game.”

Naturally, Draco was disappointed with this suggestion as well, but it was almost worth it to see the look of abject loss on Harry’s face. Like he’d built up a terribly exciting night with Draco in his head, and it was all crashing down around him – ultimately, a very flattering sentiment. He only hoped he could live up to it tomorrow, or whenever the time came.

“Right,” Harry managed, when he got his face under control. “See you then.” His eyes met Draco’s a little wildly, clearly wanting to say more, but not with McGonagall standing right there.

Draco couldn’t resist a little cheek. “See you, _Potter_.”

They retired to McGonagall’s office, which opened to the surprising password of “Well done is better than well said.” After taking a seat across from her, Draco couldn’t take the pressure any longer and spoke.

“We’re not really here to discuss Quidditch, are we?”

She smiled slightly. “We are – though we’ll get to that.” She paused, glancing at him seriously. “But for now, I think it’s time you tell me what is going on.”

“With what?” he asked, mouth dry. 

McGonagall sighed, shifting her hawkish gaze to the window while answering. “Draco, I hired you this fall knowing precious little about your situation or your intentions. I hired you because you were qualified – but also because I believe everyone should be given a second chance. I don’t imagine you had an easy time these past few years, and I don’t pretend you’re the same little boy who threw hexes at his classmates under the table during class. But I took quite a leap of faith in bringing you back to Hogwarts, and you need to give me a measure of trust in return.” 

Draco’s hands were clasped tightly in his lap. “I appreciate your hiring me,” he said mechanically, trying to crush down the panic in his chest and think fast. “More than you can know. I’ll do better – I swear it! I should’ve warned my students better about the pranks. Or went with them, so I could supervise-”

“Merlin, Draco!” She cut him off with a raised hand. “I’m not here to _fire_ you! I’m here to _help_. But I can’t help you unless I know the full situation.”

He slumped back in his seat, relieved beyond measure. 

“Why would I fire you?” she continued. “You’ve performed wonderfully so far as a flight instructor, and the students all like you. I would be out of my mind to get rid of someone like that in the middle of the semester. Do you think I _enjoy_ creating more work for myself?”

“I… Thank you, Headmistress. I’m sure I don’t deserve the praise.” 

“Nonsense! And for heaven’s sake, boy, call me ‘Minerva.’”

Thoroughly panicked by that latest order, Draco found himself returning to the previous question. “Erm, what would you like to know? About my…situation, that is. I wasn’t trying to withhold anything, I just… the past few years are a bit embarrassing to discuss.”

Her gaze softened a fraction as she considered him. “Where did you go after the war?” she asked. Then, sardonically, she added, “And what are the papers likely to dig up, now that you’ve ‘stepped into the spotlight,’ as it were?”

Draco sighed, steeling himself. This was it. The moment to lay it out there – McGonagall was right; she’d earned at least that much. 

“After the war, I returned to the Manor. Without magic, and surrounded by bad memories of the house, that quickly became unbearable. So, I decided to get a job. I’m sure you can imagine how well that went.” He took a deep breath here before diving into the confession.

“My _first_ job was as a potions assistant to a disreputable man in Knockturn Alley.” He let the statement hang in the air a moment before continuing. “That job ended with me illegally reading his mind and finding that he’d swindled the shop from someone else and was using me to keep it afloat. My _second_ job…was in an underground Quidditch ring organized by none other than Ludo Bagman.”

He tried to speak as evenly and emotionlessly as possible, to pretend he didn’t care how vulnerable he was making himself. But he made the mistake of glancing up at McGonagall’s mask of sympathy, and his voice stuttered before continuing. 

“Eventually, my sentence ended, and they returned my wand to me. At which point, I hoped that I could maybe get a job in something other than just mixing potions or flying. So I applied to the position at Hogwarts, and-” here, Draco was horrified to feel his throat catching once again, “-and someone was kind enough to give me a second chance.” Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, startling in both their suddenness and appearance. “I had honestly applied expecting to be rejected straight off. But I also knew that if any place would take me, it would have to be someplace run by a sentimental Gryffindor.” He finished with a wet laugh that did nothing to hide his emotion like he had hoped.

He felt a warm weight on his arm, and he looked up to find McGonagall reaching across the desk to comfort him. “Thank you for telling me, Draco,” she said. Then, fiercely, “And I would _never_ abandon a student in need.” 

He wiped at his eyes somewhat hysterically, a genuine laugh bubbling up amidst the sorrow. “I’m not your student anymore.” 

McGonagall smiled then, looking a little emotional herself. “You’re all my students. Always.”

They did end up discussing Quidditch – but not until much later, and after several cups of tea. The pitch had to be double-checked for safety, so they strolled its circumference together, making light conversation as they tested the stability of the structures and the anti-jinxing wards. 

Draco was in the middle of reinforcing a beam in the stands when McGonagall caught him off-guard. “So, what are your intentions with Harry?”

He turned to face her so quickly that he nearly slapped her in the face with his wand. “ _Pardon?_ ”

She snorted at his expression. “Come now, Draco. Did you think your romantic overtures from the last few weeks were _subtle?_ Not to mention the amount of grinning and gazing that happened tonight over dinner. It’s evident that something is going on.”

At the moment, Draco could not think of a person he’d less like to be having this conversation with. “P-Professor!” he sputtered at last. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!” 

She gave him a flat look and an eye roll and then finally continued casting about the pitch. “Just tell me you’re not taking it lightly,” she said after several moments had passed by in silence. 

He turned back to the beam he was fixing before answering. “I’m not,” he replied quietly, leaving enough space that he could pretend they’d both forgotten the question.

They finished up their safety check within the hour, and he rushed back to his chambers to sleep before the game that would come in the morning. He knew it wasn’t possible – not tonight, at least – but for a brief moment, he entertained the thought of stopping by Harry’s room on the way. More than anything, he wanted to see him and continue the kiss from this morning that seemed so long ago already. 

But Harry was undoubtedly asleep, and there’d be plenty of time for that in the future.

Draco was starting to think that the world was conspiring against him in new and terrible ways. He’d been on his way to bedding Harry after the game, when, naturally, the entire fucking Slytherin Quidditch team had appeared, frenzied with the taste of victory, and begged Draco to celebrate with them. 

Well, _some_ of them had, that is. He’d been halfway through politely declining when Fenn had appeared at his side, shouting, “Oh bollocks! You’re barely older than us. We’re contemporaries. And you helped us train, so you’ve gotta share in the celebrating! This doesn’t happen every day.” 

The whole team was drunk on their win and therefore unwilling to let him escape the imminent merriment. It’d been clinched when Fenn glanced coyly at Braxton, who had appeared expectantly at her side, size dwarfing both her _and_ Draco. It wasn’t a threat – not in the real sense, anyway – but he could see her eyes sparkling with amusement when he folded. 

“Maybe one drink, I suppose…” And before he could even finish, he was being dragged off to the Slytherin common room – leaving a flabbergasted Harry behind. “See you later?” he’d called to him hopefully over his shoulder.

The man had run his fingers messily through his hair, huffing with unvoiced frustration. That had tugged at his heartstrings a little. Draco really _hoped_ that Harry would see him later – he _wanted_ to see more of him now, but that no longer seemed likely with the way things were going. The last view he’d had of Harry was him crossing his arms before Draco was pulled around a corner.

The Slytherin common room was nostalgic. He’d been there, of course, since coming back to Hogwarts – many times, given the Halloween escapades – but there was something so different about sitting in the old armchairs with the express purpose of relaxing. It brought back memories of countless nights when he’d stretched out next to his classmates with his feet up on the table and had the audacity to be _bored._

Manny passed him a tumbler of firewhisky, which awoke him from his reminiscence and sent him into the fresh moral dilemma of whether it would be more responsible to stop his seventh years from drinking alcohol or to chaperone them when they did it anyway. He certainly wouldn’t have listened to such stodgy advice when he was slipping firewhisky into the dorms himself.

In the end, he took the glass, but set it on the table. 

“A toast!” Fenn cried, when most of the upperclassmen had drinks in hand. “To our first win this year, and starting the season out right!” A cheer went up through the students. “And to our flight instructor being a Slytherin, who should want to continue seeing his house succeed in the future,” she added with such self-referential nepotism that Draco had to laugh aloud in response. 

“I’m not stacking the scores for you, if that’s what you’re asking-” He was cut off by a wave of playful “boos” that he quelled with a smile. “That being said, it’s no one’s fault if Slytherin team comes to me for strategy tips and practice more often than the other teams. I’d only be doing my _job_ , in that case.” 

Kat and Marla crowed at that, clearly delighted to see a teacher admitting to being sneaky. He’d learned, by now, that that was a secret to teaching – you just had to demonstrate that you were also human, and it made them infinitely more comfortable being imperfect in your presence. For kids, especially, that was important. 

The common room fell into easy chatter, younger students clamoring to confess their drama to Draco and eager to impress him with their stories. It passed the time nicely, so he found himself almost feeling bad as his mind drifted back to earlier this evening, when Harry had met him after the match. 

He’d been in the locker rooms, changing, when Harry had appeared. Merlin, his heart had jackrabbited to see the man come seeking him as soon as the match had ended. He’d been hoping – but not _expecting_ – and it showed that Harry must’ve been thinking about him nearly as much as Draco had been thinking of Harry. They had kissed again then, Harry asking if he could in the most adorably straightforward way…and Draco hadn’t been able to resist teasing him a bit by stripping down his pants before Harry could work up the courage.

 _Fuck_. Why hadn’t they just continued right there, against the lockers where Harry had confessed he’d wanted Draco to keep his Quidditch gloves on next time? Even thinking about it was enough to make him all hot under the collar again.

The party was slowing as the evening wore on – most of the younger students had gone on to bed, so it was just a cluster of seventh-years chatting around the fire. Draco decided it wouldn’t be so terrible to have a sip of that drink now; almost all of them were legal in the Wizarding World, after all. 

“So, did I steal you from your sweetheart back there?” Fenn asked, sliding into the seat next to him. 

He grunted and rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Which means ‘yes,’ then.” 

“ _Which means_ that if you already suspect the answer, you shouldn’t ask the question.”

Fenn laughed and took a swig of her drink. She’d been drinking rather heavily tonight, but she still seemed to have her wits about her – at least compared to some of the others. She wasn’t leading the crusade to get the group to play Truth or Hex, so that was something.

“I don’t get you,” she said after a long pause. “Why come back here after everything that went down?” 

The question startled Draco out of the pleasant lull that had overtaken him. “What do you mean?”

Her eyes had a faraway look in them as she stared past him into the flames. “I just mean – you could’ve gone anywhere, yeah? Why return _here_ , where there are so many memories?” 

He swallowed a sip of his drink, considering. These kinds of questions were often more about the speaker than the person they questioned. “I suppose I returned because there _were_ memories here. A mixture of good and bad, sure – but that was still more positive than the alternative.” He asked the next part as neutrally as possible. “Was there some reason _you_ didn’t want to return?”

She breathed out a sigh, twirling her glass subtly in her grip. “Not particularly. And by that, I mean that everyone who was here three years ago has bad stories that they can tell. Mine is not especially unique.” 

Draco stilled, remembering his own nightmarish memories from seventh year. The easy boredom from his younger years had been thoroughly stamped out by the Carrows. And, as a Malfoy and a Death Eater, they’d made him do terrible things.

“Yeah. It wasn’t a great year for anyone, I think. Unless you count Amycus and Alecto,” he joked, but the sardonic humor failed to curve either of their lips into a smile. It was still too raw to think about. Maybe it would always be.

“We have a lot to redeem our House for,” she mused, eyes still trained on the dancing coals. 

Draco mirrored her pose, thinking of his own part in that as a teacher here at Hogwarts. It all seemed so big and daunting in front of him. “Indeed we do.” 

Fenn slipped away after that, returning to the frivolous conversation around them. He didn’t blame her; things like the war were best talked about in small doses. He fell back into easy chatter with his students, though the ghost of their conversation remained. 

The next time the peace was disturbed, however, it was by someone shouting his name. 

“Malfoy!” 

Draco glanced up to see Harry burst into the common room, startling the Slytherins from their languid conversations. There was a moment in which the man appeared startled himself, like he hadn’t expected anyone but Draco to be sitting there – which was an amusing thought in and of itself. 

“Potter. Didn’t know you were so eager to celebrate Slytherin’s victory with us,” he quipped, letting the words tumble from his mouth like firewhisky. 

“We need to talk-” he started, then seemed to realize where exactly they were – namely, one of the gossip mills of the school – before rephrasing. “You need to _explain_ something to me.” He held something up in the air that took Draco a moment to recognize – but once he did, it became imperative that they discuss the contents somewhere else. 

“Oh. _That._ ” He slid to his feet, torn between feeling terribly smug that Harry had read his Skeeter parody – at last – and ashamed for having written it in the first place. “With pleasure,” he intoned, stepping quickly for the door. 

“Malfoy, you can’t go! We were about to play Truth or Hex!” Fenn pouted – she was looking a bit drunker than she had earlier, and he wanted to laugh at how her sober self would hate her acting this way. 

“I’m afraid I have to go. Potter needs me to explain a certain… _essay_ to him. Reading’s not his forte, unfortunately.” He was hoping that would be enough by way of explanation, but the seventh-years were loathe to let him go; he was beginning to think he ought to have cut off their drink supply by now.

“At this hour?” she groaned. “You can do schoolwork tomorrow!” 

He laughed, savoring the fact that she would _really_ hate herself tomorrow if he mentioned this. “Yes, well, _The Savior_ demands it, so I have no choice but to obey.” He waved jauntily and took that moment to link arms with Harry as a means of maneuvering him out. 

In the hall, Harry now pouted as well. “What, now I’m _forcing_ you?” 

Draco scowled fondly, ruffling Harry’s hair just because he wanted to. “Don’t be a prat. You _did_ burst into Slytherin yelling for me. That’ll cause more rumors than me giving you a hard time – like _usual_ , I might add.”

“Yeah? Well, I need you to explain _what the hell this is_ ,” Harry countered, waving the book in front of his face. 

On the edge of being tipsy, Draco only had the wherewithal to smirk in response. They were ascending rapidly now, but Harry surprised him by pulling them both into his office once they reached Gryffindor tower. Probably since it was closer than his bedroom. 

Either that, or he really _did_ just want to talk about the book.

Harry cast a _muffliato_ on the door after he latched it, and all the secrecy of it forced another inappropriate bubble of laughter from Draco’s throat. 

“Well?” Harry demanded.

“Well, what?” He bit his lip to keep from cackling at the idea of Harry reading it while Draco chatted on, unaware, at the party. Perhaps he’d been playing sad music at the time, too.

“You know what! _What the hell is this?_ ”

He couldn’t resist. “It’s a book, Potter.”

Harry, clearly driven into a manic state by this reply, flipped the book open dramatically in his hands and began reading aloud:

“‘ _Lions and Snakes. Or, in other words, the year pure, wonderful, Boy-Who-Lived Savior, Harry Potter, spent stalking Draco Malfoy. From the moment they met, Potter nursed a fiery passion for the handsome, pureblood Slytherin that manifested itself in high-strung Quidditch matches and poorly-constructed comebacks which he used to get the other boy’s attention._

_“Boys will be boys” or mounting sexual tension at Hogwarts?_

_By sixth year, Potter was rumored to be desperately in love with Malfoy, following him around with puppy-dog eyes at all hours – day and night. It is said that he even broke down and begged Malfoy to...to-’”_ Harry broke off, stuttering adorably over the word, “‘ _-to_ fuck _him; anything to release him from the torment of his own unrequited feelings. He even offered himself as a personal servant to Malfoy_ - _’_ ”

Harry stopped again, his face blazing. “What, is this your fantasy or something? This shit goes on for four more pages!”

Reminded of how pathetically desperate his writing sounded by having it read aloud to him, Draco did the only thing one could do in such a situation: deflect with overly arrogant humor. “Why, do you want it to be?”

“Don’t evade the question!” he shouted. “ _Why_ did you write this? And over a month ago, too! We weren’t even…even…” He made a gesture here that Draco supposed implied “fucking – or on the complicated road to it, anyways.” 

Draco tried to think up the least damaging excuse for his indulgent wish-fulfillment gone wild. “Well,” he started, “I knew you were extraordinarily dense.” Harry began to protest, so he raised a hand to shush him. “And you’ve only proved that even more over this past month – don’t you dare deny it. So, I thought I’d help plant the idea.” 

_There, that made it sound like it was_ planned. _Like Draco still had his life somewhat under control – instead of being tossed around haphazardly in the wake of Harry’s emotions._

“I knew you’d flip when you read it,” he admitted, since Harry had yet to say anything. That worried him, and so he filled the silence with explanation, hoping to lure some reaction from the man in turn. “ _If_ you read it. And I honestly never thought you’d be interested. So I let it get a bit…imaginative.” _Was he saying too much – or not enough?_ He’d never done any of this before. It was so much easier to shag blokes in the staff bathroom of a bar, because the groundwork didn’t matter – he wasn’t emotionally _invested_ in the outcome.

“How long?” Harry finally asked. And Draco was so confused by the context, and immediately, possibilities flitted through his mind only to be promptly rejected.

“Pardon?”

“How long have you…have you wanted to ‘fuck’ me?” he asked, so earnest that Draco that wanted to scream. 

Harry held his gaze until Draco couldn’t meet it any longer, and let his head fall back with a strangled-sounding laugh. “Oh, Harry,” he said at last. “That’s an unfair question.” 

“One I’d like the answer to,” he said, stepping forward. “Well?” 

_Since he’d known what ‘sex’ was? Since he found out that it was something two men could do?_ There was no way he was saying that, so he grabbed for Harry’s hips instead. 

The man snatched his wrists and gave him a challenging glare. 

“So _touchy_ ,” Draco murmured, still desperate to distract him. “Here’s a question: how long have _you_ known?” It was a diversion, but he couldn’t say he was uninterested.

“A few weeks,” Harry answered bluntly. “Not stop evading.”

“ _Only_ a few weeks?”

“You can’t distract me.”

“Oh, but I can _try_.” Draco leaned in and kissed him, chuckling as Harry’s resolve weakened and he melted into the embrace. His grip weakened, as well, and Draco snaked his hands away into Harry’s curls, smirking as Harry followed his mouth when he pulled away. 

Then, Harry’s eyes narrowed, and he was dropping to his knees. 

“You won’t tell me? Not even if I _beg?_ ” He ran his hands up Draco’s knees and skated them neatly up his thighs. The switch-up was so sudden and unexpected that Draco felt like he’d been hit by a train. The sight of Harry, kneeling smugly between his legs, was so arousing that he was certain he would pass out any second. 

He had dreamed of this moment, for sure – but that didn’t mean he’d actually _expected_ it. 

“Fuck, Harry…” He tried to swallow away the huskiness in his voice, but when he continued, it was still just as wretched. “Much longer than you. Don’t make me say it.” 

Harry glanced up with interest at that. “Why? I won’t laugh.” He began tracing his fingers up Draco’s calf. _Merlin, did he have no idea what he was doing to him?_

“I’m not saying,” Draco reiterated, more to keep himself steady than anything.

“Come on,” Harry urged, fingers following the trouser seam to his inner thigh. 

“Harry-” he warned, realizing that the man, in fact, knew _exactly_ what he was doing. 

“How long?”

“Harry, please-”

The fingers stopped just before they reached the bulge in Draco’s trousers, and he fought the urge to break down and beg. His times before had been _nothing_ compared to this – none of the friendly teasing and passion. None of the rapid staccato of his heartbeat, which stuttered every time Harry glanced up at him with those deep green eyes. Even his previous orgasms had been understated and _dull_ compared to the flare Harry’s touch sent across his skin. 

They hadn’t even _done_ anything – yet. And it was that “yet” that had his heart pounding and fingers quivering as he reached out for the table to stabilize himself.

“You want me to touch you?” Harry asked quite suddenly – and if Draco hadn’t been leaning against a desk, he was fairly certain his legs would’ve given out from under him. 

His answer was breathy and immediate. “Yes.”

Harry’s eyes gleamed. With agonizing slowness, he slid his hand up Draco’s thigh until he was finally cupping him above the fabric. He squeezed experimentally at the bulge beneath his palm, and Draco could only hiss softly in pleasure as Harry documented his expression with unblinking eyes.

_Fuck – how did it feel this good? How were Harry’s hands so different than Grant’s?_

Harry was opening his trousers now, reaching beneath that first layer to grasp him through his pants. 

Draco sucked in a sharp breath as Harry pressed a kiss to his hip. Encouraged, Harry began kissing along his hipbone to his abdomen, his teeth catching softly on the waistband of his pants when he reached it. 

The man took a fortifying breath before freeing Draco’s cock through the flap. He paused, taking it in, just as Draco was taking _him_ in – noting every twitch and expression with a drunken hope and the overwhelming fear that he would disappoint. 

For a long moment, Harry did nothing – and Draco began to panic that he had thought better of this whole affair. Either that, or he wasn’t as into men as he must’ve thought. _Merlin, what a terrible discovery to spark in a person_...

“You don’t have to- I mean, only if you _want_ to… I wasn’t expecting-” _anything really_ , he thought, _so I could die happy with just what I’ve gotten so far._

“Do you want me to?” Harry asked, raspy voice the only clue as to what he was feeling. 

“Like I said, only if you _want_ to-” The last thing he wanted was for Harry to feel obligated and then grow to regret it later. “I’m not going to make you, just because I’m-”

“Do you _want_ me to?” he repeated, forceful enough to send Draco into a frustrated impatience. He was _trying_ to be communicative – instead of ravishing the man like he’d been desperate to do forever.

“Of course I bloody _want_ you to! I’ve wanted it for _years!_ ”

Draco immediately regretted his choice of words, when Harry glanced up with a self-satisfied smile. “How _many_ years?” He paired the question with another tug of his dick. 

“None of your _damn_ business,” Draco managed, but only just. He was on the edge of moaning pitifully for Harry already. “Now shut up and suck my dick.”

The last bit had been intended as a joke, really – but the effect the order had on Harry was too dramatic to ignore. His pupils blew wide, and his nails dug into the smooth fabric of Draco’s trousers over his thighs. _Did he… Did he_ like _that? Being ordered around?_

Blood pounding in his temples, Draco caught Harry’s chin in his grip and tilted his head up to look at him. It was suddenly vital that he had Harry’s full attention. “What, you like that, Potter?” 

_It simply wasn’t possible. Harry Potter – great, assertive Savior of the Wizarding World…enjoyed_ submission? But here he was before him, licking nervously at his lips, fumbling his words, but not _denying_ it. 

“I…I mean-”

 _It simply couldn’t be true – if it was,_ someone _would’ve plastered it across the news by now. Unless…unless no one else knew._

Draco’s lips curled into a smirk as he realized he might be the first person Harry dared sharing this with. _Merlin_ …first men – now this? What other kinky secrets was Harry hiding? 

“Gloves, huh?” he muttered, as the pieces began falling into place. “It’s all starting to come together.” He pressed Harry’s mouth open with a thumb to his bottom lip, cataloguing the glazed eyes and quickened breath as he did. 

Fuck, that expression should’ve been _criminal_. He tugged lightly at Harry’s head, palm cupped neatly around the base of his skull, and Harry moved forward without resistance. Draco could’ve laughed with surprised delight. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” he murmured as Harry’s mouth wrapped around his cock. 

The first few licks were messy in a way that drove Draco dangerously close the edge. It was clear that Harry had never done this before, and the thought that _he_ was the first made him light-headed in the most intoxicating way. 

Remembering Harry’s reaction to his earlier order, Draco fisted the hair gently along his neck. Not too tightly – just enough to show that he was still there. Harry stiffened for a moment, and then a shiver of pleasure raised goosebumps along his spine. 

He really _was_ enjoying it, then.

Draco clenched his jaw to hold back a pitiful groan. He rocked Harry’s head gently up and down, amazed at the way Harry simply let him. Like he _trusted_ Draco – and that thought had to be curbed before Draco could come in a confusing mix of heat and tenderness. 

Harry’s head came down a little deeper, and then he was pulling away quickly to cough. 

Draco froze. “Are you okay?” Had it been his fault – had he been pulling Harry down too hard? He’d been keeping it fairly shallow, as that was all he really needed anyway – it was easily the best thing he’d felt in his life already. 

“I’m fine,” Harry said, slightly-watery eyes refusing to meet his.

“If it’s too much, we can stop – or try something else…”

Harry shook his head, settling back between Draco’s thighs. “Just tell me what feels good,” he insisted, before taking him nearly to the base.

Draco gasped. _Bloody Gryffindors, never doing things by halves._ “Fuck. _That. That_ feels good.”

Harry groaned around his cock, and Draco bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. He hadn’t received a blow job since Pansy Parkinson fifth year, and the difference between the experiences was staggering. That one had been quick and one-sided and ultimately disappointing, while this one felt like a strange frisson of energy between them that was igniting. 

He steadied himself with a handful of black hair, and Harry’s heavy-lidded expression was enough to drive Draco to the edge. His eyes flicked up to meet Draco’s, and Draco tugged his head away with a desperate urgency. “Harry, I’m going to… I’m close-”

Harry just gave him a _look_ and broke free of his grip to take him down once more. And that was it. Draco spasmed, clutching wildly at Harry’s head and neck and shoulders as his orgasm tore through him. He could feel Harry’s throat contracting as he swallowed down his cum, and the eroticism of that thought had his muscles seizing in yet another wave of release. 

“ _Bloody hell_ , Harry,” he said, when he regained the capability of speech. He pushed the man gently off of him, when the after-tremors were growing too intense. 

“Was that okay?” Harry asked. Then, he immediately blushed, like he hadn’t quite meant to divulge his self-consciousness. 

Draco laughed, his body shaking like he’d just played a five-hour Quidditch match. “No, you idiot. It was _awful_ – that’s why I just came down your throat.” He caught Harry’s chin in his hand and made sure the man was looking at him when he asserted, “It felt amazing.”

Harry blew out a sigh of relief before he started shifting uncomfortably on the floor. Realizing that his knees must be hurting him, Draco pulled him to his feet. Harry leaned in for another kiss, and Draco couldn’t stop himself from being an arse and asking, “What, can I help you with something?” 

For a moment, Harry looked suitably horrified that Draco was _actually_ going to leave him hanging, which he corrected by bursting into amused laughter. “Merlin, your face. It was a _joke_.”

Draco shifted his focus to unbuttoning Harry’s trousers as fast as he possibly could, slipping his hand beneath his pants the second the flies were undone. He grasped Harry’s cock in his hand, marveling at how it felt to finally be _touching_ it – after years of lusting and dreaming. It had a good girth to it, and the velvety skin felt even more perfect in his grip than he could have imagined.

Harry grabbed at Draco’s shoulders for support, and Draco smirked at his flattering instability. He continued working Harry’s dick, turned on all over again by the little breathy moans the man was making against his neck and the clench of his grip that accompanied them. 

“Do you want me to…” Draco flicked his gaze downwards, saliva pooling in his mouth at the mere idea of sucking him off. 

Harry sucked in a sharp breath and bit his lip like it was the hardest question he’d ever been asked. “Just keep…keep doing what you’re doing,” he managed at last, letting out another little groan. 

Draco stifled a wave of initial disappointment, but then refocused on the feeling of Harry hardening even further beneath his hand. _No – this was better. He’d get to know Harry inch by inch; there was no need to rush into everything at once._ With that in mind, he drew his second hand down to catalogue the feel and size of his bollocks. He rolled them languidly in his palm, and Harry let loose a wordless cry that had him pressing higher into his perineum next.

“Harry, look at me,” Draco demanded. The man had squeezed his eyes shut in pleasure, and the loss of his gaze was a visceral subtraction. He _needed_ Harry to be looking at him when he came. He just needed that. “Please, Harry.” 

Harry’s eyes flew open, and then he was coming – coming hard and jerkily over the expanse of Draco’s knuckles. He crumpled against Draco’s body, face buried in his neck, and Draco held him with the epiphany that this was the first time he’d felt so at peace. 

“Merlin,” he said – sounding just as awed and wonderstruck as he felt – “I’ve just jacked off _Harry Potter_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta, [GallifreyIsBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyIsBurning) for editing while on vacation! I appreciate it so much 🙏
> 
> And thank you to everyone for reading! I'm trucking along with writing this (though I might be a little busy as we lead up to the holidays...and I still am considering writing something small for Christmas - GAH! We'll see how life happens.) But I hope everyone is staying safe and indoors!
> 
> xoxo


	14. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to [GallifreyIsBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyIsBurning) for the quick beta!

As Draco woke, his thoughts flew immediately to the previous night. Had it been a dream? Or had he really gotten off with Harry after reading smutty prose? The description alone sounded unreal, and he forced himself to focus on the series of events to make sure they followed a logical, worldly progression. 

He sat up. His body felt loose and satisfied in a way that he’d never before felt after sex – and that, more than anything, led him to the realization that it had really happened. _Fucking hell_. A ridiculous grin stole across his face. 

_He’d gotten off with Harry Potter._ It was real.

And now, thinking back carefully, he recalled the sweet hesitation on Harry’s face when Draco had walked him back to his room. Like he’d wanted to invite him in, but wasn’t yet bold enough to dare. 

That was fine. The whole night was muddled in a rosy, euphoric haze, and Draco needed time to process everything – he’d meant what he’d thought yesterday, that there would be time enough to explore each other; there was no sense in getting it “over with” in the space of a single night. 

He slipped out of bed, pulling on some trousers, a shirt, and a soft, cashmere jumper. He was in the process of buckling his belt when he noticed the outline of an owl perched imperiously by the window. 

His heart jumped in his throat. _Agamemnon._

With cautious steps, he reached the window and threw up the sash. The bird stepped in, glaring at him until he unwound the missive from his claw. Then, without waiting for a response, Agamemnon jumped from the ledge and soared away. 

Draco’s hands trembled as he unrolled the paper. It was today’s _Prophet_ – no elaboration, no note. But the delivery had felt much like those mornings Father would throw the paper on the table in disgust – not even saying anything, just expecting Draco to pick it up and read it to understand his disappointment. 

Hating himself for complying, he flipped through the pages now. There. On page seven, he found an article entitled: ****

**THE MALFOYS – A FAMILY OF DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS.**

He read through it, shame and disgust twisting like maggots in his stomach. And really, what was worse than the implications, what was worse than the _epithets_ – worse, even, than the raw violation of his private matters exposed so cavalierly to the public – was that righteous indignation at the way the author twisted his disinheritance to revolve around _Harry_. Like it wasn’t year-old news that happened before any of their recent involvement. Like Harry just might be able to interpret it as _his_ fault. 

The thought made Draco furious. 

What _right_ did they have to dredge up his past? What right did they have to drag _Harry_ into it? He was having enough issues disentangling his own muddled history with Harry without the press weighing in. The unnecessary complication of it all was _maddening_. He felt strangled and stifled and caught up in yet another intangible prison. 

_When would it end?_ He crumpled the pages in his hand and forced himself to breathe. 

There wasn’t a reliable answer, but in the meantime, at least he had Harry – in some capacity. For now, that would have to be enough.

By the time Harry stumbled into the Great Hall for breakfast, Draco had managed to calm down with a cup of tea. He’d thrown away the article from his father, and – though one of the school’s owls had delivered him his usual copy of the _Prophet_ – its pages felt infinitely less malicious without having touched his father’s hands. He’d been paging through the other news when Harry had shown up. 

“Potter,” he greeted, unable to stop the smirk that stole so effortlessly across his face at the other man’s appearance. “What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?”

Harry glanced huffily down at the monstrous hand-knitted jumper he had on, muttering, “Molly made it for me. Why? What’s wrong with it?”

Draco eyed the giant “H” on the front and couldn’t help but snort. “Well, combined with your electrocuted hair, you look like a veritable vagabond.” 

“A _what?_ ” he asked incredulously – to Draco’s singular delight – before continuing without pause. “Never mind. At least I know better than to put on a three-piece suit to go play Quidditch in.” 

It was clearly an insult about his upbringing, which Draco couldn’t be arsed about at the moment. “Now, now, Professor Potter,” he quipped, relishing the way Harry once again twitched at the title, “you’ve _seen_ me in my Quidditch uniform. It’s all perfectly regulation – knee pads, elbow pads, _leather gloves-_ ”

“Right!” Harry interjected, face reddening in an instant. “What’s for breakfast this morning?”

Draco took a moment to admire the delicious embarrassment coloring the man’s face. He couldn’t help but keep poking at him, drawing attention to that inherent scruffiness that, Salazar be damned, he found so perversely attractive. “Also, you’ve got lint – right there. That’s another thing wrong with your attire today. Doesn’t really exude professionalism, that.”

Harry scowled, looking down at entirely the wrong place. “Where? Get it.” 

Draco felt his heart speed in his chest. _Here?_ Harry didn’t mind if he touched him in such a casually intimate way, here in the Great Hall? Swallowing surreptitiously, he plucked the lint from Harry’s shoulder. 

The man seemed to come to Draco’s line of thought a couple beats later, when he stiffened slightly and cast his gaze around the room. “No chance they’ve all just forgotten the articles, is there?” he muttered after he’d surveyed their surroundings adequately. 

“Juicy articles about The Boy Who Lived taking place within our good castle walls?” Draco asked sardonically. “Unlikely.” His chest felt tight all of a sudden, and he couldn’t help the question that slipped out next. “Why, would you rather no one knew?”

Harry met his eyes for a long moment, seeming – for once – like he was measuring his words carefully. “I would rather people didn’t make such a big deal out of my life.” 

Draco sighed. He knew it was not quite what he’d asked, but he wouldn’t press – at least not for now. “Yes, well, since we both know that’s not going to happen, we might as well make the most of it. For example, I’m learning all sorts of new things about you – like how you ‘ _became_ gay due to your lack of father figure.’”

He gestured to the _Prophet_ , and Harry sprayed pumpkin juice across the table with a choking, spluttering sound. 

Seizing the theatric potential of the moment, Draco read a few key lines aloud, causing Harry to choke and splutter some more. But the humor of it died when Harry stumbled upon the Malfoy article in unscripted retaliation, and he read the first line aloud before immediately trailing off at its unmitigated horribleness.

He looked up at Draco with pity, and Draco _hated_ that more than anything. “By all means, Potter,” he dared, “tell me something funny about it. I’ve been looking for a bright side for hours.”

Harry blinked a few times in shock before swallowing and saying in a small voice, “You didn’t tell me you were cut off.” He rubbed a hand roughly over his face. “ _Merlin_. You told me they took it okay!” 

Draco could tell Harry was being indignant for _his_ sake, but the disparity between his pride and his pitifulness was too great to result in anything but prickliness. “I didn’t say ‘okay,’” he enunciated slowly. “I said ‘not great – but nothing I couldn’t handle.’” He _needed_ Harry to see he was still capable – that he wouldn’t let his family dictate his actions and feelings like they used to. 

“ _This_ is handling it?” Harry asked, shaking the paper gently in his face. 

And this was too much, too soon – too early in the day. They hadn’t even had a proper fuck yet, and Harry was expecting him to unload his daddy issues. “I don’t need you _mothering_ me, Potter,” he stated, feeling cold and cutting as he said it. “It’s not like we’re… It’s not like we’re _friends_.” 

_Merlin, fuck – he hadn’t meant to say that_. But now it was out there, and Harry’s eyes were widening in injured disillusionment before Draco’s very eyes. 

He was about to open his mouth to apologize, when Harry beat him to the punch. “Right. We aren’t, are we? My mistake.” 

Harry pushed himself loudly to his feet, chair screeching across the cold stone ground. And Draco might’ve said something then, if he hadn’t felt utterly gutted by the words hanging between them. 

“I’ve got to prepare for class,” Harry said. And then the moment expired, and he was already gone.

Draco cursed himself all the way to his afternoon flying class, wallowing in self-pity about his inability to handle delicate situations _delicately_ and push aside his defensiveness about his family. It wasn’t like he _didn’t_ want to talk about these things with Harry – in fact, he wanted nothing more than to have that kind of intimacy with the man. But the issue was timing. He and Harry had just begun this…whatever it was between them. He didn’t want to douse that flame by unburdening twenty years of fraught family tensions on top of it.

But that didn’t excuse his behavior. Harry had been _hurt_ by him – and that didn’t go away just because he hadn’t meant it. 

He climbed sulkily onto his broom, then flew low out over the pitch. The first-years were gathering steadily, and some were even feeling confident enough to lift off the ground and practice some zigzags before he reached them. 

“Class,” he greeted, then quickly realized he had nothing else to say. “Hello.” 

“Hi Mister Malfoy!” some of them chirped, and – without quite intending to – Draco found himself breaking into a smile. 

“Hi,” he repeated. “Now, what are we feeling today? Are we ready to move on to simple rolls, or do we want to stick to the vertical slaloms I set up last class?” 

The students broke into a chorus of noise, each one wanting _their_ idea to be heard above the rest. 

“Rolls! Barrel rolls!”

“No – slaloms! We get to do the fun dives, like a roller coaster,” a Muggleborn girl argued, which was incomprehensible to Draco.

“Can we please please please do the relay race thing again?” one little boy asked, and Draco felt himself melting at the excitement in his tone. 

“Ooh, yeah – can we?” several others clamored, remembering the fun from two weeks ago. 

He raised an eyebrow and surveyed the class. “Are we all good with that? Doing another relay race?” Most of the heads nodded – some furiously – but no one seemed bothered by the idea, so Draco relented. “Very well. But you’ll have to give me a few minutes to set up the stations.” 

The first-years cheered, and Draco rolled his eyes affectionately as he summoned spare quaffles and rain orbs to the ring. He’d invented the game on a whim when the students were getting particularly unruly leading up to the Ball; he hadn’t expected it to become a class favorite. 

When everything was in place, he divided the class into six teams, then those teams into four. There were four segments to the relay race, and each team divvied up the tasks between the people in their group; when that was done, they headed to each of the starting points. 

“First group in position? Go!” Draco sent a _bombarda_ at the six quaffles on the ground, sending them flying in wildly different directions. The students took off – each grabbing for one to bring to their teammate on the far side of the pitch. 

Some students caught theirs right off; for others, it took several tries and a few bounces off the pitch before they could secure them. That was fine – the game was more for fun than for skill. 

Draco flew alongside the boy currently in last, smiling encouragingly when he happened to catch his eye. The student out front was just reaching the goalposts, where the next wave of players was waiting. She threw her quaffle through the first hoop with a cheer that quickly turned into a groan where her team member dropped it. 

The others followed soon thereafter, several needing a few tries to get it through a hoop – some needing to fly up right in front of it. But soon enough, everyone was onto the next phase and looping around each of the House towers in the stands on their way to the tall tree by the pitch. There, they had to toss the quaffle through a magical, hovering ring that Draco had spelled to blaze purple when they got it successfully through. Then, it would release one of the rain orbs that he’d stuck inextricably in the branches with magic. 

The third teammate would then catch it – like the group currently leading was doing now. A raincloud immediately coalesced above the holder’s head, and he frowned magnificently before taking off towards the starting point. 

The first two teams were neck and neck as they flew, mini-rain showers drenching them as they went. The boy in first gritted his teeth, and Draco laughed aloud at how seriously they were all taking it – how seriously _he_ would’ve taken it back when he and Harry used to compete. 

The thought of Harry sent a flare of pain through his chest as he remembered this morning, and he sobered as he followed the students at a chaperoning distance. 

Reaching the starting point, the boys lobbed the rain orbs into the air, where their final teammates were waiting. The girl on the left missed hers, which sent her team quickly into second as she dove to retrieve it. The other caught hers with a practiced ease, and she took off towards the magical shield Draco had set up in the sky. She tapped it with the rain orb and smiled as the whole shield glowed blue before she twisted to descend. 

When her feet hit the pitch, Draco amplified his voice and called out “First!” Several of the students, hearing this, grew sluggish in their efforts, figuring the winning position was already taken. The teams in second and third, however, seemed to double down on their efforts to complete the circuit before the other. 

In the end, the team that had been first for most of the race dropped to third, and the rest stumbled across the finish line in due time. Some looked exhilarated, some disappointed, but all of them were huffing and tired – and that, Draco figured, was what was important as a flight instructor: tiring out the first-years so they wouldn’t get up to much trouble. 

He was cleaning up the quaffles and dismantling charms after class when he felt a light tug on his robes. “Yes, Ella? Did you need something?”

The little girl shook her head, sending her pigtails bouncing. “No. I just wanted to say that my dads were happy to read that we had some gay teachers at Hogwarts. They said that it’s a ‘good influence’ and that it helps ‘smash the hetero-…hetero _normative_ agenda,’” she finished proudly, patting Draco on the elbow like an approving parent herself. “Which is good, I think. So don’t be sad about the mean people in the news.” 

Appallingly, Draco felt his eyes begin to water at the exceedingly touching sentiment. He hadn’t known any of his students came from families with gay parents. It was a revelation that forced back the bars of his mental cage and made the world feel less like a prison. 

“Thank you, Ella. Tell your dads I appreciate their support.” 

She smiled broadly, then skipped off to put away her broom. 

He swallowed away the tightness in his throat and leaned against the stands for a minute, digesting this new information. Her parents were Muggleborn, he knew. Were things like being gay more accepted in the Muggle world? It was something he knew little about and therefore hadn’t considered. But what if it was true? What if the world that would accept him best was the one he had reviled as “backwards” and “unbearably ignorant?” 

This line of questioning made him uncomfortable, which he’d learned usually made it something worth revisiting. It was part of his self-made mission of change, and he’d have to give himself the opportunity to parse it out when he could. 

But right now, what was most important was Harry. Steeling himself, he resolved to go find him as soon as he’d cleaned up.

From the flow of students coming from Harry’s classroom, Draco could tell that a lesson was just ending. _Who was he kidding? He’d memorized Harry’s roster back in the first weeks of school_. He _knew_ a class had just finished. 

Draco stood to the side and let the students flow out until it became a trickle, then stopped altogether. Taking a deep breath, he knocked. 

Harry glanced up from his desk, surprise tracking across his face when he saw him. 

Draco tried to read the expression in his eyes – _was he still mad about this morning?_ He couldn’t tell, but he soldiered on. “Is it alright if I come in?”

Harry stared at him for a minute, eyes sweeping up and down with a curious little frown on his face. “Of course.”

Draco relaxed a smidgeon as he came in and shut the door. 

“Are you okay?” Harry asked – a complete non sequitur as Draco turned back around to face him. 

“Yes,” he replied automatically. “Why?”

“You look…a bit _mussed_.” The description was so astonishing – coming from Harry of all people – that he took another second to blink in confusion. “Not in a bad way!” Harry assured, misinterpreting his silence.

“No, no, pardon me – I’m still just in shock that you used the word ‘mussed,’” he commented. 

The man looked thrown by that, and his lips curled downward into an indignant frown. “I know words, Draco.” 

That expression, paired with his use of Draco’s given name were enough to warm him to the banter. “And what an _eloquent_ way to use them,” he remarked. He continued further into the room, choosing to lean against one of the desks facing Harry. “Anyway, I wanted to talk. Well, to _apologize_.”

Now, it was _Harry’s_ turn to be shocked, and you let out a startled “ _You?_ ”

Draco winced. “Yes. _Me_.” He supposed that was the reaction he should’ve expected. “I was being a prat earlier, and I didn’t mean to be.”

Harry’s mouth flapped like a fish several times before finally managed a “Yes. You were. Being a prat.”

“I know,” Draco agreed quickly. “And I’m sorry about it – I just…I don’t want to ruin things, but I just… It’s hard for me to talk about my family.”

Harry chewed on that for a minute before gathering himself to respond. Draco half-expected him to refuse such a sorry excuse. “I get that,” he said instead. “But I’d like to know what’s going on if possible so I can help you. Or just listen. Sometimes having someone just _listen_ can help.” He looked up at Draco with such resolute, hope-filled eyes that it made him wither with guilt for causing him distress. 

“ _Fuck_ , you really are the Golden Boy, aren’t you?” he groaned. He covered his eyes with a hand, only daring to peek through his fingers for the next admission. “I’m a dick to you, and then you go and offer me _emotional support_.”

Harry smiled slightly, the tension of their argument fading into the good humor of the conversation. “It’s okay, you’ve _always_ been a dick – it’s my own fault if I like it.”

And wasn’t _that_ the truth?

But before Draco could do something self-destructive like make fun of Harry for it, he felt the other man pulling his hand from his face. Harry gripped Draco’s hand between his palms like he was warming it, and it felt so nice that he twisted and interlaced their fingers together. It felt a bit like his lungs had expanded and made his chest overfull.

“Let’s talk,” Harry blurted out, startling Draco from his reverie. 

“About what?”

“Everything,” Harry asserted, a blush rising in his cheeks, but powering on nonetheless. “I want to get to know you better.”

W _as that a…? Was he…?_

“Are you…asking me on a _date_ , Potter?” It didn’t mean to come out as incredulous on his tongue, but his surprise was great enough to warrant the drama of it. 

Harry flushed even darker, his eyes darting between Draco’s and the floor. 

“Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I am.”

Draco’s eyes widened, amazed that someone like Harry could face his embarrassment like that, head-on. Then, he laughed, because _Harry Potter_ had just _asked him on a date!_ Every detail of every interaction since their first kiss had become a record of momentous beginning, and Draco savored each with the same flash of disbelief as before. He wondered whether it would ever grow old – then quickly hoped that it wouldn’t.

“Alright,” he said, “I’ll bite. What does Our Wizarding Savior have in mind? Where does the grand Harry Potter take his dates?”

Harry shoved at him, dropping his hand with a playful scowl. “I don’t know, you arse. Where does His Pureblood Prattishness like to be courted?”

He half-considered saying something pretentious like a five-star restaurant in France, but he was so past that phase of his life, he could no longer even pretend. “Well, you can never go wrong with Madam Puddifoot’s,” he joked. Really, he was testing the waters of Harry’s willingness to be seen with him in Hogsmeade. 

Harry’s scowl deepened. “You can _definitely_ go wrong with Madam Puddifoot’s. How about somewhere else?” He looked rather horrified by the idea of it, actually, and Draco prayed it was because of his calamitous date with Cho Chang and not the idea of Hogsmeade that caused it. 

But there was nothing for it. He’d give it an earnest go. “Alright, how about we go to The Three Broomsticks on Saturday, and we can hit up Honeydukes after?”

He was gratified when Harry broke into an uncomplicated smile. “Sounds perfect,” he said. 

And it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm back! (Terribly sorry to everyone who waited so long for this chapter to go up. I _did_ end up writing a [holiday Drarry story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28080693), so that was why I took a brief break from posting.) Now I should be back on track for putting up a chapter every other/every third week. 
> 
> Hope everyone had a merry Christmas who celebrates it! Stay safe.  
> xoxo


	15. The Most Romantic Date

His memory of their first hookup was driving Draco insane. For some idiotic reason, he had suggested _Saturday_ for their date – which was days and _days_ away! And instead of hooking up again before then, Harry seemed to take this invitation as a reason to hold out and pleasantly endure until then.

Put short: Draco was mad at himself. He _could’ve_ asked Harry to a quiet supper that night in his chambers, and perhaps they’d have been fucking their way from bedrooms to broom closets by now. But _no_ – Draco was, again, an _idiot_. And in his panic-induced haze, he’d planned their date for _Saturday_ , which was still – as he’d mentioned already – _days_ away. 

Dueling club came and passed on its typical Tuesday. And while it was entertaining to bait both Flitwick and Harry in one sitting, Draco found that it was no longer enough to satisfy him. The heated looks Harry had given him when they’d made overtures at dueling left him hot and uncomfortable for the remainder of the practice. 

He’d jacked off vigorously once he’d returned to his room.

And now, Wednesday was meandering into Thursday, and Thursday was crawling – slow as treacle – into Friday. Time was betraying him consistently and mercilessly, and by the time Saturday morning came, he felt battered by its cruel expansion. And then, quite suddenly, there was none.

“Shit, what do I _wear?_ ” he asked aloud five minutes before their date. He was standing by his closet, staring unseeingly into its depths. He’d killed an almost-infinite span of time this morning with his routine of reading and pacing, and evidently he’d killed a bit too much of it. 

“Cashmere on the first date makes me seem like a prat, but I can’t wear my regular robes either.” He flung shirts and trousers from their hangers in his furious attempt to find something suitable in time. “Can’t wear _red_ – it will make Harry far too smug from the first – and if I wear _green_ , he’ll no doubt tease me for that as well. Fucking _psychological mind games._ ” 

His hands paused over a sleek grey suit he hadn’t found much occasion to wear. He’d gotten it in a rare splurge at a Muggle shop back when he thought that Quidditch might drive him out of the Wizarding World altogether, but in the end, he had endured – the way he’d endured the many places and people who’d caused him suffering before. 

He slipped into the suit, marveling at how the lines fit him so much more cleanly than the billowing mystery of his cloak. Tossing the jacket over his shoulder, he headed to Harry’s quarters. 

“You look…good,” Harry said, eyeing him up and down once he opened up the door. Draco did the same – but more discreetly – and bit back the flush rising to his cheeks at the compliment. Harry was dressed in a comfortable-looking jumper and a pair of dark-wash jeans that looked so becoming on him that Draco immediately went on the defensive.

“You as well, Harry. In a ‘charming urchin’ kind of way,” he quipped. It was far too early in the date to be getting _sentimental_ , and Draco’s panic had yet to settle.

The jibe did wonders in curtailing Harry’s dangerously sappy expression, and he closed the door behind Draco with a scowl. That was fine.

“So, we’re going by Floo, you say?” Draco continued, in a forced-casual sort of way.

Harry huffed an ironic little laugh. “That’s right. I figured it would be less conspicuous than leaving from the front doors of Hogwarts, skipping hand-in-hand.” 

Draco arched a brow, his nervousness fading a touch at their comfortable banter. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I should tell you up front that I don’t _skip_. May that be the first thing you learn about me on this date.”

Harry smiled. “Oh, that’ll change for sure. Don’t you know that we Gryffindors are required to skip everywhere we go?” 

Draco rolled his eyes at the sarcasm – though, inside, he thoroughly appreciated it – then couldn’t help a wave of somberness overtaking him as he admitted, “I was a bit surprised. I didn’t realize you had gotten permission to use the Floo. Though, I suppose it makes sense that McGonagall wouldn’t offer me that privilege – I don’t have a great history with letting people into the castle.”

Harry’s eyes clouded, pained. Draco’s words hung unexpectedly heavy in the air, and after several moments he rushed to dispel them. 

“It’s okay, Harry. I’m not bitter about it – it makes perfect sense.” He _was_ , in fact, bitter – but not at McGonagall; only at himself.

Harry laid a hand on his shoulder and faced him. “I think that if you asked her, Minerva would give you permission too.” He said it seriously, too, like he truly believed it. 

Draco smiled sadly, more torn apart by that sentence than if Harry had reprimanded him for overstepping. “And I think that _you_ are a relentless optimist.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t let go of Draco’s arm. “No, I really think she would. But it also feels like something you have to find the courage to ask about first. Some things are just like that…like the Sorting Hat.”

“Like the Sorting Hat?” Draco repeated, caught off guard. “Why the hat?”

“Well, you know…” Harry started, rolling his eyes like Draco was pulling his leg. At Draco’s unchanging confusion, he hesitantly continued. “Because it takes your choice into consideration.”

All the air expelled itself from Draco’s lungs. “It does?”

Harry scratched at the back of his head, looking slightly embarrassed to be explaining this. “Yeah, I mean, it was stuck between Gryffindor and Slytherin for me, so I asked it to put me in Gryffindor. I was told that happens sometimes.”

 _No! I’ve never heard of that!_ Draco wanted to scream, but he refrained as another detail fought for prominence in his brain. 

“ _Wait_. You mean to say…that all this time, you-” _could’ve been by my side?_ “-you could’ve been in _Slytherin?_ ” The thought was unthinkable.

Discomforted no doubt by the intensity of his reaction, Harry was now blushing. “Err, I suppose.” He said it like it didn’t matter – like this was just some casual, alternate path he could’ve walked and been fine with. Not the earth-shattering realization it was to Draco.

 _Harry…could’ve been in_ Slytherin? In his long years of pining, Draco had comforted himself only with the impossibility of his fantasies, that he was free to dwell on them without action, as the two of them were simply _too different_ to ever work as one. But this new revelation had shattered that idea; maybe they weren’t so different after all?

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Draco muttered. He rubbed a hand down his face. _Hell_. He wished he had a minute – or a millennium – alone to deal with this new information. How was he supposed to go out on a _date_ knowing suddenly that he’d wasted so much _time?_ “Slytherin, huh? Fuck. That simultaneously makes no sense and perfect sense – you always were a sneaky bastard. And the parseltongue-”

Harry’s eyes widened at this barrage, and Draco forced himself to be silent. Then, he sighed and couldn’t help making one final comment. “I should have known… Things would’ve been so different if you had been a Slytherin.” 

“Like what?” Harry asked. And the way he said it – so casually curious – made Draco want to _inter_ himself for his years of shameful pining. Here was _Harry Potter_ : a man so completely oblivious that he couldn’t tell when someone had daily fantasies about boning him. And too kindly _innocent_ about it to make Draco feel he could confess. 

“Never mind,” he said quickly.

Harry smiled conspiratorially, like he’d cottoned on to what Draco was thinking, but then promptly shattered the illusion by saying, “Yeah, well, I would’ve been even sneakier if I’d been a Slytherin. I don’t know if you’d like that so much.”

Draco huffed out an exasperated laugh that luckily hid at least some of his hysteria. “Sneakier than hiding the fact that you were almost a Slytherin for nine years? Let’s face it – the Hat made the wrong call.”

Harry broke into laughter that was so contagious that Draco soon followed. Then, he was grabbing the Floo powder off his mantel and offering some to Draco with an outstretched hand. “You ready?” he asked, voice soft.

While he didn’t _say_ it, Harry was clearly also nervous about more than just the beginning of their first date. They were about to step out into the Wizarding world – together, officially, for the first time. 

Draco drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders a bit, then ran a hand through his hair before nodding. “I’m ready,” he said before stepping into the flames.

The Three Broomsticks was moderately crowded, seeing as it was noon and in the midst of its lunch rush. Harry wasted no time in pulling them into a discreet corner booth, eyes roving to catalogue any unwanted audience, and then relaxing enough to engage in romantic date conversations like “what did _you_ do after the war?” 

Literally, he had just asked that. After confessing to his own feelings of aimlessness, no less. It was obvious that the two of them were _very good_ at romance.

“I…” Draco started, quite unsure how to even _begin_ his sordid tale – and not sure he wanted to. “Well, first off, I dealt with the trials and their aftermath.” He looked up at Harry, cataloguing what might constitute a conversational landmine at this juncture. But Harry smiled sympathetically with interest, so it was clear that if there were any, _this_ was not it.

_Is it a faux pas to thank someone for getting you out of jail when on your first date?_

Draco dove in anyway. “In fact, I never thanked you for coming to testify at my trial. I…I don’t think I appreciated it as much at the time, but I can see how you saved me a much more painful sentence.” Which was, well, the understatement of the century – but it needed to be said, nonetheless. 

Harry was looking vaguely horrified at this point, so Draco wrapped up his thank-you speech there instead of waxing poetic about something awkward and terrible like “being saved.” After another stunned moment, Harry mumbled, “Don’t mention it. It was the right thing to do,” which was a dumb enough thing to say that Draco couldn’t help but smile.

“Well, I don’t know about _that_. But still – thank you.”

Harry looked strangely out of his depth as he gestured for him to continue, and Draco was eager enough to get this over with that he did without any teasing. “So I got sentenced to eighteen months without using any magic,” he said, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. “I lived at home for a while to sort out my mess of a family… That turned out to be a horrible mistake.” 

Draco laughed humorlessly. Had he just left straight after the war – packed his bags the day of the battle and disappeared – perhaps he would’ve turned out less a failure than he had. But that was the thing about hypotheticals: they drove you crazy with envy and ultimately changed nothing. 

He took a swig of butterbeer. “I ended up leaving after about nine months and found a job.” His mind slithered over Morpheus’, refusing to linger, and landed on his equally terrible prospects at the Quidditch ring job. “Several, actually.” 

“You left home? What did your parents think?”

Draco was relieved enough that Harry hadn’t asked “ _What_ jobs?” that he answered him honestly. “They…weren’t pleased. As I’m sure you can imagine. Father had been sentenced to a year in Azkaban, followed by a lifetime’s house arrest, and my mother got off with similar magical restrictions as me. It was a tenuous time for our family reputation – still is, really – and I couldn’t stand to stay in the midst of it.”

Mother’s face came to mind, crestfallen when he would take a meal back to his rooms instead of staying to eat with her. Fractured whenever he said he was “going for a quick walk,” because it had quickly come to mean “I’ll be gone for the entire day, and possibly even longer.” 

His eyes caught on Harry, surprised to see the man still engaged. “And then?” 

Draco sighed. “Then, Father cut me off.” He said it simply, like constraining his tone to neutrality could constrain his emotions as well. “He finished his year in Azkaban and immediately froze my finances when I refused to come home. So there I was: penniless, jobless, _magic_ -less, in the middle of Wizarding England with nowhere to go-”

“How could he do that?” Harry interrupted, eyes glittering with a barely-suppressed rage. “How could he, after everything you’d endured – everything _he_ made you do? Knowing the position it would put you in?” His face twisted in righteous anger, empathy, and loss. Eventually, he added, “And your mother – she allowed this?”

Draco looked away. He wasn’t quite brave enough to face all of Harry’s emotions laid bare – they mirrored his own too well. “Mother…didn’t agree. But ultimately, she is not in charge of our estate.” He took a sip of his butterbeer. “You see, this is why the disinheritance they mentioned in the papers didn’t affect me so much. That news is nearly a year old; the _Prophet_ just didn’t fact-check.”

He could see Harry turning that over in his head. “Wait, but if you’ve been disinherited for a year, why did they make you go explain yourself after that article came out?”

Draco rubbed at his forehead, suddenly exhausted at trying to explain the habits of his parents in a way that would make sense. Because they _didn’t_. “Call it a last-ditch effort to get me to abandon my ‘traitorous’ ways. It didn’t work, so, naturally, Father went straight to the press with that horrid interview like he promised.” It was less than that – and more. Whatever fresh hell he’d endured at their hands, when they called him, he came. He feared he might always. 

“Like he _promised?_ Hell…” Harry was clearly scrabbling for something comforting or lighter to say; it ended up being, “So what you’re saying is… I probably _will_ get my balls hexed off if I ever run into your father.” Which was as good of a tension-breaker as any.

Draco snorted. “Like I said, _house arrest_. There’s no need to worry about that particular encounter. But enough about me. What have _you_ been up to since the war?”

As far as conversation transitions went, this one was pretty transparent, but Harry seemed to sense that Draco was at his limit with depressing talk about his family. “Nothing, mostly. I stayed at the Burrow. Ron and Hermione moved on and moved out into their own place, but I stayed. Ginny was there, but busy with Quidditch stuff. I kept everyone pretty distant; I was trying the whole ‘peaceful living’ that I had never gotten to experience growing up, but in the end, it just wasn’t for me.”

Their food had arrived, so Draco took a bite of his shepherd’s pie, sparing a wry look for Harry. “Well, _I_ could’ve told you that.” _Harry Potter_ taking a vacation – perish the thought!

When Harry continued to stare blankly at him, he elaborated. “You were always getting into trouble – sassing people, starting fights, saving the world – and happiest when you were doing all three. ‘Peaceful living’ – as you call it – was bound to be terrible for you.” Which seemed, to him, incredibly obvious.

But apparently not to Harry, because his brow was doing that cute little furrowing thing, and he looked quite surprised as he articulated a “huh” and then, “I wish I had known that before I tried it for two years.”

Draco was sure he could’ve come up with a witty and clever retort to that, had another question not eclipsed that line of thought. “So you and Ginny… are over, I presume?” he asked as neutrally as he could, hoping his depthless fear of the answer would not show. 

For a long moment, Harry was silent. Draco began to fear the worst – that he was just an _experiment_ , that he had no intention of ever making this longer than a fling-

“You let me suck your dick without knowing that first?” Harry burst out.

Draco froze, panicked thoughts eradicated by the force and shock of that exclamation. Then, the red heat of a blush crawled to his cheeks, and he found himself masking it poorly beneath an ill-positioned hand. “Well, I wasn’t sure I’d get another chance,” he muttered, not fully intending to.

“Blimey, Draco, yes! Yes, we’re over. I thought you _knew_ that.”

“Well, I sort of suspected-” he stammered, “I mean, there were rumors about why you were suddenly avoiding everyone-”

“And it never occurred to you to _ask_ in the time since then? Like, before we kissed?”

Which was really quite unfair, because Draco had _tried_. He’d tried _many times_ , in fact, to speak with Harry during that interval and had been spurned at every occasion. “Merlin, Harry! I was just happy you wanted to _kiss_ me!” 

At that, he promptly shut up because A) they were being too loud – even under a mild silencing charm – and B) he was absolutely mortified. Which meant, of course, that Harry was going to latch onto it and continue this line of conversation.

“I _did_ want to kiss you,” Harry replied in a decidedly quieter tone, “and it shocked me that you were even interested – up until that point, I thought you were completely _straight_.”

“Not _interested?_ ” Draco hissed. _Not interested!_ Oh – this was the icing on the cake. _Now_ , he had to explain how precisely _not straight_ he was for one Harry James Potter. “How did you… Harry, I don’t think I could have been any more _overt_.” Then, in hysteria, “ _Straight_ men don’t _fellate carrots_ to get other men’s attention!” 

Over the course of this rant, Harry’s face had gone from a pleasant rosy brown to hot streaks of red blooming across his cheeks. He fidgeted with his chips, refusing to look up. “Err, right. I kinda wondered about that.”

Draco was going to scream. He really, truly was. 

“Merlin, this is _exactly_ what I was afraid of! Half the time, I thought you got it and were – _maybe_ – flirting back. But the other half, I was convinced that I had made it all up due to your _utter cluelessness!_ ”

“Well, sorry I’m so ‘clueless’-”

“ _And the pranks!_ Were you trying to drive me _mad?_ Was that flirting, or am I crazy? You wrote yourself into my schedule until _Christmas_ – that seemed a bit intense for a simple joke. But was it _flirting?_ I didn’t sleep for two night, questioning your motives.”

Harry pouted tremendously before finally admitting, “It was…flirting.”

Draco felt his mania leaving him in a rush. All the questions, all the tensions of the past two months – but at least he had _this_. “Well, thank Merlin for that, at least.” He met Harry’s eyes. “When did you know?”

The man froze for a millisecond before continuing. “Like I said, a few weeks.” He answered fluidly, convincingly even, but Draco’s interest was already peaked. 

“But like, what _made_ you realize?” He knew he was prodding whatever Harry was trying to keep quiet, but the look of delicious panic in Harry’s eyes made it well worth the needling.

“I…err…it was after the Quidditch scrimmage-”

“Which one?” Draco leaned forward, refusing to allow Harry to break his gaze. “The time you ran into me?”

Harry’s façade of casualness was crumbling now, and he was beginning to chew at his lip. “Err, no. The…first one.”

“Huh,” Draco said. “So earlier, then. Why _that_ one?” He didn’t remember doing anything purposefully seductive that time, especially since it was in front of a class of first-years. The curiosity was killing him.

“I-I mean…you kept _looking_ at me throughout the match-”

 _Which I’ve always done,_ he thought.

“-and…and I hadn’t seen you in your gear before-”

“Which you assured me would look horrendous and laughable, yes.” Draco must’ve been feeling particularly cruel, because anyone with eyes could tell that that wasn’t what the Savior thought now. 

Harry’s face was blistering with heat, and he was looking everywhere now but Draco’s eyes. “Um, well. Yeah, I had _thought_ it would be…”

“And how did I look, Harry?”

 _That_ made the man’s eyes snap up. They were tortured and pleading and turned on. “You looked…really good,” he rasped, barely above a whisper.

“Just ‘really good?’ Use your words, Harry.”

“Really _fucking_ good, okay?” Harry retorted, voice rising with defiance. “What, you want me to wax poetic about how the leather grips your arse? Hell.”

And it was in this vulnerable moment that Draco blindsided him with the original question. “What was the _real_ reason you decided you liked me, Harry?”

Caught, Harry remained staring down at their mostly-cleared plates. He was pink to his ear-tips, which was what prompted Draco to lean across the table and whisper and toy with him some more.

“Did you think of me during sex?”

Harry flinched away violently like Draco had discovered his darkest secret. “It wasn’t during _sex!_ ” he cried. “It was just wanking!”

Draco felt the smirk curling across his face and hoped he didn’t look too smug for Harry to forgive him. 

“Oh, _fuck_ you,” the Golden Boy said. “Go ahead and laugh.” 

But instead of laughing, Draco found the sum total of his energies devoted to _not_ bending Harry over their booth table and fucking him into next week. The idea of Harry _wanking_ _to him_ was more than he could bear in polite company, and, quite ruffled, he found himself skating a hand up Harry’s thigh under the table. 

“ _Laughing_ was…not what I had in mind.”

Harry’s breathing went somewhat erratic, and their eyes locked in smoldering, consuming tension. Draco’s hand moved up, higher and higher, before dancing away as he lost his nerve. His inhibitions were dancing on a knife’s blade, and ultimately it was the ambient restaurant sounds filtering in that revived his sense of propriety. 

He gave Harry’s knee a quick squeeze and then released. “But that can wait,” he said, hoping it came out teasing instead of terribly unsteady. 

It must’ve worked, because Harry suddenly looked furious – which was just as gratifying now as it had always been. Draco picked up his knife and fork again and resumed eating. He made sure to draw each mouthful delicately from the tines with a languor not quite befitting the quality of meal.

At the end of their meal, Harry had injured his pride a bit by insisting on paying for everything – which Draco wouldn’t have allowed, if the Gryffindor hadn’t resorted to emotional blackmail. 

“I’m buying you lunch because I _like_ you, Draco,” he’d said. “Can’t I do that?” And Draco had dropped it, because he didn’t want to get into an argument that revealed the intricacies of his self-loathing and inability to accept favors from anyone. Instead, he’d muttered something trite about “bloody Gryffindors” and insisted on paying for Honeydukes. 

Now they were outside walking, though, and the stares were putting both of them on edge. Not that people _hadn’t_ been staring at them in the restaurant, it was just that there had been a limited number of people who _could_. Out here in the main thoroughfare of Hogsmeade, an infinite variety of people could gawp as they passed by, not feeling constricted by basic politeness in this momentary, chance encounter. 

Draco turned to suggest that maybe they head back to the castle early, when-

_Crack!_

He felt a hand clap down on his shoulder, followed by a dizzying suction. Draco stumbled out of the Apparition, falling against a wall with obvious distress. 

“What the hell, Harry?! A little _warning_ next time, maybe?” He glanced around wildly, trying to get his bearings after losing all sense of direction and space. After a second, the alleyway clicked in his mind, and he realized they were right next to Honeydukes. “Especially when we’re only going…oh, _I don’t know_ – three blocks?!” 

“Sorry, sorry!” Harry exclaimed. “I saw a reporter heading for us though.”

“So you decided to draw even _more_ attention?”

“I…er…didn’t think of it like that.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair, not even caring that it would look tousled and distressed, just like him. “Of course. Why would I expect you to think _logically_ at any given point?”

“I just… I mean, we haven’t even talked about what we want to say to them, so I didn’t want to be blindsided, and-”

“Say to who – the press? What do you mean?”

“Yeah, the press. I mean…I mean, we haven’t decided whether we’re going to…you know?” His eyes caught Draco’s with embarrassment. “Tell people. About this.”

“Ah, I see,” Draco replied quietly. And he did. Harry was still undecided, then, about telling people. Either that, or he was feeling Draco out – but why would he need to? Draco had practically admitted that he’d do anything Harry wanted, as pitiful as that might have been.

But he tried to push away that negative line of thought. Harry was _trying_ – either way. He’d agreed to come out to Hogsmeade today, so he clearly thought enough of Draco for that. It was up to _Draco_ to not bury them in his own self-doubts. 

“Do _you_ want people to know?” he asked Harry, rather than torture himself with further hypotheticals. 

Harry tensed. “I, um, don’t see the point in rushing these decisions…unless, of course, you wanted to – which would be fine. Or _didn’t_ want to…and that would also be…fine. I mean, I’m good with whatever you decide. Yeah.”

And at _that_ non-answer answer, Draco leaned against the wall and considered the options again. It _sounded_ like Harry was feeling him out, so he put that one back on the list of possibilities. “Harry, you can’t expect me to believe you Apparated us away from a reporter in the middle of the street without having any thoughts on what you want to tell the press.”

Harry chose to deliver his next diversionary tactic while plucking at loose threads on his jumper. “We can discuss it later, if you want.”

Despite his frustration, Draco found himself smiling at how adorable Harry could be at times. “I thought we were trying the whole ‘open communication’ thing on this date.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve never had a heart-to-heart in an alley before,” he responded, clearly grasping at straws. 

“Are you ashamed to be seen with me?” Draco asked straight out, because he didn’t think he could bear dancing around it any longer. Then, “I would understand if you are.”

“No!” Harry said quickly. “I’m not ashamed. Of you _or_ being seen with you.”

But by now, Draco’s reality was so mixed up with his assumptions that he couldn’t tell if the emphasis was genuine or defensive. “Harry, it’s okay if you are-”

“Well, I’m _not!_ ” he practically yelled. “I _like_ you, I want to _go out_ with you, and if everyone’s going to hound me about it anyway, then _that_ should be in the damn papers.”

Draco was momentarily stunned into silence. Harry…wanted to go out with him – _officially?_

He cleared his throat with a certain amount of effort. “So you _do_ want to tell people?”

Harry considered the question for a long minute. “Yes,” he said at last, “but…maybe not right away.”

“Because you think I’ll use you and run?” Draco joked – only it didn’t _sound_ like a joke coming out. It sounded flimsy and scared. 

“No,” Harry said firmly. “Because…well, it sounds stupid, but-”

“Stupider than you wanting to date a former Death Eater?” Draco attempted again, this joke falling even flatter than the last. 

“No,” he reiterated. “Because…of coming out. It’s like, I’m just figuring it all out myself, and then suddenly I have to explain it to the world. The same world where a lot of people aren’t understanding or accepting – especially in Wizarding society. And I know what I feel, but I don’t have the words to say it; I’m not good at explaining things like Hermione.”

“And what do you feel?” Draco asked, heart rate spiking – in anticipation or empathy, he couldn’t tell.

“Like…like this is exciting. Scary too, but mostly exciting. Like spending time with you…well, it’s different than how I felt for Ginny. I loved her, and I feel terrible for how we drifted apart – it really was my fault, after all – but in this selfish way, I’m glad it happened so I could pursue this new thing with you.” 

Harry swallowed, gathering himself like he was leading to some pronouncement. “I’m bisexual. I know some people don’t believe that’s real, so that’s going to be frustrating to explain…and- and it doesn’t mean that I’d cheat on you with a girl or whatever. I mean, if we’re even going to be exclusive, I don’t mean to assume-”

“Harry, you’re babbling,” Draco chastised lightly, catching Harry’s hands that had been flailing with emphasis. “I know what bisexuality is.”

“And you don’t mind?” Harry asked, eyes going round with entreaty. 

Draco felt himself melting a little at the oblivious mess of a person in front of him. He cupped Harry’s face in his hand and said, “Of course not. You were dating Ginny Weasley when we met again – why did you think this would come as a surprise?” He found himself tracing Harry’s cheek up and down in strokes he hoped were somewhat comforting. “Also, you’re making a lot of assumptions. _I_ could be bi – you never thought to ask.”

“Are you?” Harry blurted.

“Well, no,” Draco said, grinning. “But I _could_ have been.”

“So you’re…gay?” And the look on Harry’s face was so forcedly casual that Draco nearly burst out laughing. 

“No, this is the part where I tell you I’ve actually been _straight_ all along.”

Harry punched him softly in the chest. “You dick.”

“No really – it’s my longest and most elaborate prank yet,” he insisted, actions belying his words as his face inched closer and closer to Harry’s. They kissed, and it was a cataclysm of hands and cheeks and eyelashes. Draco pulled Harry in with a firm grip at his nape, while Harry surged against Draco like a wave. He crowded Draco against the wall with searing hands.

“What’s so funny?” he asked when Harry broke away with a little smirk.

“Nothing,” the man said with a stupid grin. “We’re just always up against a wall.”

“Oh, I can pin you against other surfaces too, if you’d like,” Draco quipped and reveled in the shiver it sent through Harry’s body. They fell back to kissing with fervor, Harry pressing their interlocked fingers into the wall. It caged Draco within his arms in the most enticing way, and when they drew back for breath, Harry was watching him.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, and Draco thought he might faint at the reverence in Harry’s tone. It was completely undeserved, and therefore twice as stimulating, and Draco crashed their lips together again – hard at first, then tender. Harry held him in place against the wall, and he did all he could to squirm closer. 

But Harry was being a brat and not letting him – so Draco nipped his way to Harry’s neck to make him acquiesce. His grip was giving, and Draco was almost to his collarbone when Harry drew back with a ragged gasp.

“What?” he asked. “What is it?”

Harry’s mouth worked silently for several seconds before he seemed to find what he wanted to say. And once he had, Draco wished – _emphatically_ – that he hadn’t.

“This can wait,” he said at last, stealing Draco’s cruel quote from earlier. A devious smile played about his kiss-swollen lips. “After all, we have a date to finish, and you owe me some sweets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my wonderful beta [GallifreyisBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyIsBurning)! I'm having fun writing the date scenes again, though I hope it's not too repetitive with the original dialogue. I try to only include verbatim the parts that I think are particularly relevant to show Draco's reactions/thoughts. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you're all having a good week and staying safe!  
> xoxo


	16. Candy-sweet Venom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w: blowjobs, handjobs

Alright, so he was a bit cross with Harry as he straightened his clothes and entered Honeydukes still uncomfortably aroused, but who could blame him? A minute ago, he’d had Harry Potter pressing him into a wall and snogging him senseless – who in their right mind would be happy to part with _that?_

But Draco endured, gazing long and hard at the wide pupils and flash of color upon Harry’s cheeks. That kind of lust was not a trifle to simply fade away. 

Harry entered first, dodging the boy levitating with the force of Fizzing Whizzbees, and paused a moment before turning around. His eyes catalogued the bluebell bubbles ricocheting around the room before settling back on Draco with unrestrained wonder. His smile was radiant, and Draco wondered a bit whether it would smite him on the spot. 

“What do you want to look at first?” Harry asked, breathless.

Draco smiled, sure that he’d gone all doe-eyed and sappy again, and said, “No, no – you first. Remember, I’m treating, so get whatever you want.” It was indulgent, and he knew it; he never suspected that he’d become someone who indulged others.

Harry surveyed the room before gesturing to the Bat’s Blood Soup fountain that burbled nearby. “Let’s get some Mice Pops to dip!”

Draco bit back a chuckle at how carefree Harry was, here in this nostalgic place. He was so open and _light_ in a way that Draco couldn’t remember him ever being back in school, and he wondered whether it was simply the Dark Lord’s looming shadow that had prevented it - or if it was something more.

Harry dunked a Mice Pop into the red marshmallow goo, while Draco unwrapped a chocolate skeleton with precision before dipping. Everyone knew that Bat’s Blood left a particularly sticky residue if it got on you, and yet all his meticulousness was for naught; he got distracted watching Harry take an overenthusiastic bite and felt the telltale trickle of syrup dribbling down his hand. 

He saw Harry’s eyes track to the spill and catch on it. 

Spellbound by that gaze, Draco raised his wrist slowly to his mouth. He ran the flat of his tongue up his palm, capturing the drop, never looking away. It tasted sweet and filthy in his mouth, and he let out a hissing breath. 

“Alright, Potter. What next?”

Harry, cheeks still full of candy, making a choking noise before he managed to swallow and regain his senses. “Um…Treacle Fudge?” he asked, voice slightly hoarse.

They had some Treacle Fudge. Then, Peppermint Toads. Then, a handful of sherbet balls. Everything was delicious, but nothing was satisfying. 

Draco was about to turn and ask Harry if they’d played innocent long enough – if they ought to maybe retire to a room back in the castle together – when he realized the man’s attention had been snagged by someone else. “Hi Professor,” the kid was saying, “I didn’t expect to see you in Hogsmeade today.”

“Hi Sam,” Harry greeted, schooling his face into some semblance of professionalism. He still looked like an overgrown schoolboy, though, with the unrepentant smear of caramel upon his cheek. “Yes, I don’t normally come out here on the weekends, but today seemed like a good day for a visit.”

The kid – Sam’s – gaze flicked between Harry and Draco, and Draco turned away quickly to look at the nearest merchandise (which, of course, was a Liquorice _Wand_ – as if that wasn’t provocative in any way). He wasn’t sure quite why he was doing it, either, just that he didn’t want to make Harry uncomfortable by acting too doting too soon. If Harry wasn’t ready, he would respect that.

“I see,” he heard Sam continue. “Look, Professor, I was wondering-”

But he didn’t get to hear what the boy was wondering, because it was drowned out by the squeals of several _more_ students who’d evidently spotted them and decided to force an encounter. 

“Look – it’s Professor Potter and Mister Malfoy!” The girl waved emphatically, and her friend loudly asked, “Are they on a _date?_ ”

Looking closer, he was fairly certain they were seventh-year Hufflepuffs. Far too straightforward for their own good.

Proving his point, they crowded closer to Harry and asked again directly. “Hey Professor! Are you on a date?” In the background, he heard one of them protesting, “Merlin, Anna - you can’t just ask _teachers_ if they’re on a _date!_ ”

“I-” Harry stammered, “we’re-”

His cheeks had reddened under the gazes, and his eyes caught desperately on Draco, who merely stood there waiting like the rest of them. If Harry needed a lie to hide behind, Draco would accept it, but it would have to be his own. 

But Harry didn’t move to lie. He simply finished with, “That’s our business” – which wasn’t an acknowledgement, but neither was it a repudiation. 

“Well, it _looks_ like a date,” Anna continued, “so we’ll leave you to it.” She smiled, and her friends giggled nervously – other than the one girl who was still murmuring things like “oh my god, _why_ ” and “I’m never going to Hogsmeade with you three again.” 

For a brief moment after their departure, Draco lapsed into a fantasy of Harry turning around and taking this opportunity to proclaim that – _hell with it_ – they _were_ on a date, and then snatching up Draco’s hand to present their unity to the crowd. It was ridiculous, even by _his_ standards, which was likely why it didn’t come true. 

But it was also because Harry was preoccupied – once again speaking with the younger boy, Sam. “What were you saying?”

“Never mind!” the boy blurted. “Enjoy your afternoon!” He glanced over at Draco again and gave a slight nod, as if just seeing him for the first time. “Mister Malfoy.” And then he was gone. 

“I have a feeling that’s going to happen often,” Draco said, sidling closer to Harry when it seemed no more students were about to approach. 

Harry sighed, but when he spoke, his voice was level rather than annoyed. “Yeah, I know. But that’s okay.” He handed Draco a nougat, which he accepted with a smile.

They were at the register to pay for their candy when the reporter burst into the shop with a crash. “Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy out together in Honeydukes!” he shouted, heaving, like he’d cracked the case of a century. “A quote if you please.”

Draco’s skin prickled as all eyes in the shop turned to them. Before, they’d been noticed, sure, but not by _everyone_. They were just shopping, after all. But now – now their presence had been made _newsworthy_. 

He fought back an eye roll of disgust in favor of ignoring the reporter entirely, and asked the now wide-eyed cashier, “How much does that come to?”

Perhaps, if they were quick, they could Apparate and avoid this nonsense altogether. 

That line of thought, however, was dismissed in the next second, when a door banged open on the balcony above, and the _owner_ of Honeydukes – Mr. Ambrosius Flume himself – came running down the steps to greet Harry.

“Mister Potter! What an honor to see you in my store again, what an _honor!_ What brings you to Hogsmeade today, my boy?”

Draco turned back to the cashier in front of him and repeated, “How much?” at the same time he heard Harry answer, “Err, I’m out with…a friend.”

Draco willed the cashier to answer, to simply take the money in his outstretched hand and be done with it, though he dreaded it was already too late to escape. 

“Mister Malfoy,” he heard Flume say from behind him, “it’s…it’s been a while.” 

His tone was lukewarm and unmistakably displeased, but Draco – knowing now that this was unavoidable – plastered a smile on his face before turning. “Mister Flume.” He offered a hand. “How _are_ you?”

The man froze for a long moment, staring at his hand, then reluctantly gripped it to shake once, twice, then quickly release. “I’ve been well,” he managed.

One problem suitably dealt with, Draco turned to the next. The reporter. 

“And you, Mister…?”

“Jenkins.”

“Mister Jenkins,” he purred, malice dancing undetectable beneath the address. “How can we help you?”

“Well, I-” He was clearly caught off guard by such directness. “I’d like to know about your relationship with Mister Potter here.”

Draco nodded compassionately, letting his eyes go wide and sympathetic to draw the reporter in. It was working, too – the man’s shoulders were relaxing, his defensive expression was unshuttering as he was lulled into believing Draco an easy target. He felt the corner of his lip twitching at the irony of it all but masked it with an even sweeter sincerity. 

Draco was many things, but _easy_ was not one of them. 

When the man was suitably duped by his compliance, Draco veered into his secondary tactic: he swept the room performatively with his gaze in an act to involve the audience. “A bit personal of a question to ask in a sweet shop, don’t you think?”

His cutting question hung, startling, in the air, and the reporter began to splutter as he realized this wouldn’t be easy at all. 

“It’s – it’s not _me_ that wants to know! It’s the public!” 

“Really?” Draco drawled, leaning back against the counter with a smirk. “ _Who?_ ” He glanced around again, drawing attention to the silence before continuing. “Let them come ask for themselves.”

Jenkins was livid now, clutching his camera like a lifeline. “They’re afraid to ask! I ask the questions and get the answers that no one else will!” He was on a roll now, face glowing with self-righteousness. “That’s my job as a _reporter_. The people deserve to know the truth!” 

“Do they?” Draco countered quickly. “Do they deserve to know every personal detail of someone else’s life?” He scowled, thinking of Harry the morning after the Ball – hand trembling slightly while holding out that day’s _Prophet_. His tone turned acid. “Harry only _died_ for everyone once – as I’m sure you recall, Mister Jenkins – was that not enough?”

Jenkins’ bland face was now mottled with doubt and embarrassment. “That’s not…! I… _we_ need to know whether he’s been betraying the public!”

And oh – wasn’t _that_ a laughable thought? Harry Potter, traitor to anything good.

“By – what? Talking to _me?_ ” Draco raised a brow. “Like _you’re_ doing right now?”

Jenkins’ mouth flapped open then closed several times in mute argument.

“Right,” Draco concluded. “I think this interview should wait until you’ve thought through your questions a little more.” He turned to the cashier, who was so engaged in watching that she flinched as the attention shifted to her and forced her from her spectatorship. “I’m sorry Miss, how much was it that I owed you?”

Harry, as it turned out, appreciated his smarmy display at the sweets shop enough that they fell into bed almost immediately upon entering his room. “You’re such a sneaky, conniving, _enigmatic_ prat!” Harry crowed – and, for once, it sounded like a compliment. 

Draco sucked him off until his legs quivered like jelly. 

After it was over, Harry collapsed back on his pillow like his very spirit had left him, which was the most flattering reaction Draco had gotten from sex yet. He looked utterly wiped and blissed out in the best of ways, and it was truly a shame that Draco was still rock hard with wanting him.

He was halfway through contemplating a quick escape to the loo to relieve himself when Harry looked up through his lashes at him and patted the bed beside him. “Lay with me?”

Caught totally off-guard, Draco found his body obeying. He slipped in next to Harry, forcing down the rampant lust in favor of cherishing this quiet moment. His hair fell in his face, and Harry brushed a strand back in an infinitely soft caress. 

Draco stifled a gasp.

“What is it?” Harry murmured, eyes fluttering open again at the sound. 

“Nothing,” Draco said quickly, lest Harry decide against such casual intimacy. “Just…this is nice.” His words failed to summarize his veritable maelstrom of emotions, but that was the closest he could come to describing it. 

Here was Harry, soft and vulnerable, inviting Draco to stay with him in his bed. That he _knew_ the maliciousness Draco was capable of spoke volumes of the trust he must’ve had to let him anyway. That he let Draco undo him seemed somehow secondary to this quiet concession. 

“The cuddling or the sex?” Harry asked with a gentle chuckle.

“Both,” Draco admitted.

With absolutely no warning, Harry shot to a sitting position and exclaimed, “Fuck! You haven’t come yet, have you?” He reached despairingly for Draco’s trousers, but Draco intercepted his hands along the way. 

“It’s fine – later. We have all day.” And Draco found that he meant it, too. The clawing urgency of his arousal had faded into the maelstrom, and he let his body settle deeper into the mattress. 

Harry looked a little relieved as he let his eyes flicker shut again. “Alright, then in the meantime, let’s just rest a bit.” He wrapped his arms around Draco beneath the covers and began rubbing circles into his shirt. 

“You just mean you want to nap,” Draco teased, adoration coloring his voice helplessly. 

“Only if you’re still here when I wake up.”

Draco lay frozen and silent for long minutes in the wake of that comment as Harry fell quite rapidly into sleep. It was the sort of thing the man would never normally say – too straightforward in its affection, too simple to be applied to this complicated thing between them. 

But that was the reason it struck Draco so hard.

It was as if, in this sleep-induced haze, Harry had been able to strip away the complexity of it all, to cast aside the forces of hesitation that usually kept them at arm’s length. With a simple, normal phrase, he’d erased the distance and made _them_ seem simple andnormal. And if that was a possibility, then why couldn’t they have it all the time? 

Draco stared into the face of his former nemesis for a long time. He catalogued the worry lines etched into his brow, even in sleep – softened only by his undeniable youth. They were both still _so young_ – and the thought never failed to startle him. It seemed already a lifetime since he’d left the school a battleground. 

Draco eased the ragged pair of glasses from Harry’s face and folded them into his grip, not quite willing to let them go. How many times had he teased Harry for these? How many times had he drawn crude little sketches of unthinkable cruelty befalling this man – whom he had characterized only as a pair of glasses and a scar? Though, even then, Harry had been more to Draco than that.

Staring into Harry’s face, Draco finally let himself feel just a shred of the emotions whirling constantly beneath the surface. This was the man he’d grown up in opposition to. _This_ was the man he’d fashioned his whole life around; that was the power Harry held over his heart. His entire _being_ was wrapped up in him – without Harry, Draco wouldn’t even _exist_. Not in the way he currently did.

It was these thoughts that consumed him until hours later, when Harry finally stirred. The man’s hair was messy – messier than usual – and he stretched like a cat before smiling up at him. 

“You awake?” Draco asked. He shifted, then remembered the glasses still clutched in his grip. “You fell asleep with these on, so I took them off,” he said, easing them back onto Harry’s face. 

He looked momentarily startled. “Th-thanks. What time is it?”

Draco grinned. “Around six. That was one hell of a nap, Harry.” 

“I’m sorry! Did you…did you sleep at all?”

“A bit,” Draco lied. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeated, face falling from its easy radiance to a rather dour disposition. 

“Don’t apologize,” Draco assured, “I was entertained.” 

“Doing what?” 

“…Thinking.” He couldn’t very well say “counting all the ways in which I’ve fallen in love with you.” 

“About what?”

Harry looked at him with big, innocent green eyes, and Draco felt his heart rate speed up. “You.”

“Oh,” Harry mumbled, face flaring with color. He scrubbed the back of his neck with a hand, trying fervently for a casual expression. “Hopefully you weren’t thinking about how my drooly, sleeping face is a deal-breaker.”

Draco fought back a laugh, before responding quite honestly. “Nothing about you is a deal-breaker, Harry.” And at that, Harry got this funny look on his face like he was thinking too hard, and then kept flicking his gaze up to Draco’s face then away. 

“What?” he prompted. 

Harry huffed. “I really don’t know what to do when you’re being _honest_.” 

He said it so disarmingly and so obviously at a loss that Draco couldn’t help but continue teasing him. Draco caught the hand that Harry was using to hide the worst of his blush and pulled it away gently. He brushed his lips over the knuckles and dragged softly over the back of his hand. “Maybe I should be honest more often, then.”

Harry shivered. “I don’t think I could handle that,” he admitted.

Draco laughed, drawing Harry flush against him. “All the more reason, then.” He dipped his head for a kiss, jarred from the softness of the moment when Harry drew away before they could connect. 

“No, it’s-” Harry blurted, reading the expression on his face, “I haven’t brushed my teeth!” 

Draco stared dumbly for a moment. “So…do a dental charm?” Because _honestly_ – what did that matter right now?

But Harry had already extricated himself from the warmth of the covers and was hurrying to the adjacent bathroom. “It doesn’t feel the same!” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared.

Draco deflated, a wry smirk stealing across his face. Harry was _frustrating_ but also far too adorable. That he cared about hygiene at a time like this was endearing, though Draco’s revived libido would say otherwise.

He felt eyes on him and raised his head to find Harry standing at the threshold. “Really, Potter? Lurking in doorways now?” He gave the man a once-over. “Are you ready to admit you’re stalking me yet?”

Harry’s face blazed, and Draco wondered whether he’d gone too far. Last time he’d brought it up, Harry had run from him for a month. 

But the man merely stammered, “I wasn’t…I mean, I’m not. Anymore. Or not in the same way-” He stood, frozen in the doorway with embarrassment, and Draco saw his opportunity. 

He slid to his feet and sauntered over to Harry, who was watching him like a deer about to run.

“‘ _Anymore?_ ’” Draco echoed, capturing Harry’s chin in his grasp. “‘ _Not in the same way?_ ’ Which ‘ _way_ ’ did you mean?” 

Harry’s pupils dilated, and he snatched a quick kiss before Draco pushed him away. Which killed him – but he was determined this time to get an answer this time. 

“You’re not getting out of this through diversion, my little almost-Slytherin,” he murmured. But instead of answering, Harry just shivered and licked his lips in the most delectable way. 

Draco grounded himself by fisting the hair at Harry’s nape. This man was going to _kill_ him – and, fucking sap that he was, he’d die happy too. _He had to focus_. 

Draco leaned in and reiterated his question in Harry’s ear. “Well? Which ‘ _way?_ ’” He drew back slightly so he could see the way the man’s eyes squeezed shut, how he swallowed a bit wretchedly. 

“I used to…er, _follow_ you, because…you were up to no good.” 

Merlin, he liked the sound of that – like he was a puzzle for Harry to solve. Like he existed for the sole reason of Harry putting together his pieces. 

He laughed, running a hand down Harry’s hip with languor. “Was I?”

“You were,” Harry assured, making a breathy noise as Draco nipped at his ear. “You’re always up to something.”

“Always? I notice the change in tense there, Potter. What – you think I’m up to something, even now?”

“Aren’t you?” This time, Harry broke off for a groan, as Draco licked at the shell of his ear. The sound made something dark and hungry rear within him. “You’re plotting my demise,” Harry hissed. 

Draco paused, a feral smirk curving his lips. He couldn’t contain it if he tried. “Absolutely,” he purred. “I’m surprised you noticed.” He began kissing his way down Harry’s neck, marking his path with a destructive, flushed line. Harry arched into his touch, head lolling to the side so Draco could devour him. 

“See,” Draco continued, yanking Harry’s shirt down below his collarbone, “ _noticing_ things isn’t usually your strong suit.” 

Harry laughed breathlessly. “Well, I’ve developed a sense for when you’re trying to ruin me.” His voice was sandpaper now, barely gritting out.

“No, you haven’t,” Draco leered, releasing his neck with a pop. “If that were true, it’d be warning you _all the time_.” 

He caught Harry’s face again and pinned him with a look. “And you never answered the second half of my question. In what ‘ _way_ ’ are you stalking me now?”

Harry stared long and searchingly into his eyes, a flash of that same fear cropping up before vanishing. Draco wanted to press in, to step deeper into Harry’s mind – but at the same time, he didn’t need to. Harry’s emotions were so reactive, so explosive, that just standing _next_ to him was enough to understand what he was feeling: there was lust – an igniting inferno of lust – and beneath it, something softer. Something fierce. 

Harry clunked his forehead against Draco’s, still staring into his eyes, and whispered his answer against his lips. “Obsessively.”

Draco closed his eyes against the onslaught of that emotion, a weak groan bubbling up in his throat. “ _Fuck_.” 

He was enamored. 

He was _besotted_. 

He was really fucking turned on.

Draco scrambled for Harry’s zipper just as Harry began fumbling with his. His knuckles bumped against Harry’s as they yanked and unclasped, and they wrenched down their trousers with flies still partially undone. As soon as their cocks sprang free, Draco wrapped a hand around the jostling erections, stretching his fingers to grip them both in one fist. 

He pumped, earning a moan from them both, and Harry weaseled his hands so they were gripping Draco’s arse. He panted as he worked them closer to the edge, shuddering at the feel of Harry’s rigid length against his, the sight alone nearly undoing him. 

Draco refocused his gaze on Harry’s face. The man was staring, enraptured, at the cocks in Draco’s fist, and he watched Harry stifle a gasp as he added a little twist to his wrist at the end of each stroke. 

Harry’s cock was gorgeous – thick and dark and flushed, now stuttering in his grip. But his gaze kept getting drawn back to Harry’s lips. Slightly parted, air hissing out between his teeth. His eyes, fathomless depths; a dusky emerald gone black. 

“Harry,” Draco whimpered, now totally sick with lust. “Harry…Harry, _fuck!_ ”

The last curse sent Harry over the edge, and he was clawing Draco like an animal as his body shuddered and spilled. Spasms wracked that body, and Draco milked them from him, savoring every jerk and jump of Harry’s cock against his palm. His fist flew even faster now with the cum slicking between them; the obscene sound it made drove him higher and higher until he, too, exploded. 

Draco was in bliss. He didn’t think he’d even been wound so tightly before that the conclusion brought such relief. Eyes squeezed shut, he pumped out the residual climax almost lazily, stopping only when it began to feel more like pain than pleasure. 

He let go. Opened his eyes. 

Harry stared back at him, panting – matching Draco breath for breath. Then, his knees wobbled, and he grabbed onto Draco’s shoulder for support. 

Draco snorted lightly, then lifted his arm to inspect how far their semen had trickled down his wrist. He felt marked by it, like their mixed seed was a physical consummation of some ancient, powerful spell, and his heart would never belong just to himself ever again. 

He caught Harry watching and was surprised to see that the man still had enough shame left to blush. “Fuck, you’ve done it,” he murmured, hiding his face behind a splayed hand. “You’re killing me. This is definitely my demise.” 

And Draco – for once, separated from his inhibitions – could only crinkle his eyes and smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!! Hope you're all doing well. I've had a bit of a hard few weeks, but I finally got my shit together to pound out another chapter. 
> 
> Fun announcement: my friend [GallifreyIsBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyIsBurning) (who also beta'ed this chapter!!) and I are reviving Drarry Strugglefest this year - this time with a better timeline! You can check it out on [tumblr](https://drarrystrugglefest.tumblr.com/), where we'll be posting updates and rules in the coming weeks. 
> 
> Hope everyone is staying safe and protecting their souls from the crushing outside world!!  
> xoxo


	17. Veritaserum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hey everyone! Just as an update, I've decided to remove the "Graphic Depictions of Violence" warning from my story, as I've gotten past the darkest of Draco's memories that I'm really going to delve into, and they didn't end up being as graphic as I anticipated. As always, I will continue to give content warnings for individual chapters, but I just wanted to let you know the reason for the change, so it wasn't a confusing surprise.

**11 months earlier**

Today was finally the day. Draco was getting his wand back, and he could think of nothing else.

For long hours, he tried to practice his feints, but he found his euphoria matched by a terrible impatience. He couldn’t focus; he could barely keep from clawing his skin off. But he’d waited eighteen months to get here – he could wait another few hours yet.

At quarter of two – still a full hour from their Ministry appointment – Draco Flooed into the Manor to meet his mother. Though anxious like himself, she managed to cover her nerves with needless grooming, making him sit behind her in their en suite as she fiddled about before the mirror. Draco counted six different adjustments to her hairstyle before he eventually lost track. 

But the sight was also comforting – it brought back warm memories of prepping before a gala, back when they were reputable enough to hold such events. Lucius had always found her preening frivolous, despite his own meticulous ministrations, and so she’d usher him out rebelliously and continue to decorate herself while chatting with Draco. 

Those were the times he wished he could preserve: the quiet moments with his mother where they seemed so exceedingly _normal_. Where she would tug his bejeweled robe into place and tell stories of the family members who’d worn the heirloom clasp she used to pin it. Then, she’d ruffle his hair and call him ‘her little prince,” to which he’d always rolled his eyes and pouted. 

Yes, he missed his mother. But his father – whom he was currently hiding from – was enough to keep him away. She knew it too, he thought, by the way she glanced wistfully at him in the mirror. 

At half past two, they Flooed to the Ministry – for once, arriving almost embarrassingly early. But gone were the days of a fashionably late display, especially at meetings with people who controlled the path of their future. 

Mother strode, stiff-backed, to the front desk and checked them in. The wizard there eyed them warily, but confirmed their appointment for three. Draco took a step forward, thinking they were done. 

The man stopped him with a hand in front of his chest. “Sorry sir, you need to surrender your wand before entering. Ministry protocol.” He didn’t sound sorry.

Draco clamped down on his cheek to stifle a growl of endless frustration. “I haven’t _got_ my wand – that’s why we have the appointment.” 

The man glared distrustfully at him for several seconds before finding their names on the form again and confirming that he was telling the truth. “Fine. I suppose that’s all in order, then. You may proceed.”

“ _Thank_ you,” his mother cut in, before he could make a biting response. She placed a firm hand on his shoulder and walked them into the lobby. “Draco, get a hold of yourself,” she hissed. 

He was annoyed, but he also couldn’t argue with her. If they pushed back the release of their wands, Draco wasn’t sure he could will himself to survive until then. 

They made it to the office on Level Two for the Wizengamot Administration Services, and after an interminably long wait, they were led into a small hearing room, accompanied by a clerk, and now, a judge. Draco knew they’d obeyed their parole and that this wasn’t a formal hearing, but his memory of the original ruling bubbled raw and fresh in his mind. Courtroom ten. The chains pinning him down before an audience.

“Alright, let’s see here,” the judge mumbled, flipping through her stack of papers. “Sentenced to eighteen months, no wands; a check-in will occur at that time to determine the good faith and good behavior of the defendants, et cetera et cetera…” She looked up at them over her horn-rimmed glasses and raised an unimpressed eyebrow. 

“Okay, let’s just cut to the chase. I’m going to give you one drop of _veritaserum_ each, as is procedure, and you will answer a short series of questions in the five-minute window that provides. If, for whatever reason, you have not answered all of my questions at that time, you can choose either to forfeit your opportunity to regain your wand at today’s meeting and reschedule for another time, or we will administer another drop and proceed in that manner until either you’ve forfeited or completed all the questions. Do you verbally acknowledge that you understand the outlined process?”

“Yes,” his mother said.

“Yes,” Draco breathed, feeling sweat crawl down his temple at the mention of _veritaserum_. He had nothing to hide, he thought, but it was still too easy to invade someone’s privacy that way.

“Wonderful,” the woman deadpanned, sliding two capped thimbles of potion to them across the desk. “Then, let us proceed.” She waited until they’d both drunk to get started. “Alrighty. First: do you verify that you are indeed as you appear, defendants Narcissa Malfoy and Draco Lucius Malfoy, and that you have not ingested any identity-altering potions (including, but not limited to: polyjuice potion) or performed any identity-altering spells?”

“Yes,” said his mother.

“Yes,” said Draco. He could feel the _veritaserum_ working the answer from his throat. It felt like a violation. 

“Great,” the lady continued flatly. “Next question. Have you, to your knowledge, either willingly or unwillingly broken the parole agreement set to you by the Wizengamot on June the twenty-first of the year 1998?” 

Draco’s eyes were tracking over the legal reference books and files that bulged from the bookshelf. He knew the best way to deal with _veritaserum_ was to not let himself think too deeply about his answers, lest he find anxieties that would throw off his reaction or complicate his answers. 

“No,” his mother answered.

“No,” he repeated, mind successfully blank.

“Good. Now, more specifically: have you, in the past eighteen months – the period outlined in your sentence - performed any magic whatsoever?”

Here, Draco’s mind snapped from its relative peace, as he reeled with sudden, terrible realization. He _had_. He _had_ performed magic – _Legilimency_ – on Morpheus that day in the shop. Would that prevent him from receiving his wand? _Could_ it?

“No,” said his mother, and then the judge turned to him.

Draco felt sick as he held off his answer. What could he say? He hadn’t _known_ it would count. He’d survived without a _wand_ , hadn’t he? Surely, that was enough. 

He sucked in a deep breath. “I haven’t performed any _wand_ magic,” he replied carefully.

His mother stiffened slightly beside him, and the judge lowered her question list to meet his eyes. Suddenly, her “wearied office-worker” façade melted away and revealed a sharp focus that was characteristic of rare competence in a judge. 

“Wand magic?” she repeated. “Hmm, alright. What _other_ magic have you performed, then, in the past eighteen months?”

Draco clenched his teeth around the word, but “Legilimency” made it past his lips anyway.

His mother sucked in a silent breath and held it. 

The official documents lay forgotten now, as the judge leaned forward in her seat. “And who did you perform this Legilimency on?”

“My boss,” he gasped, then bit his lip harder.

“With permission?”

Teeth gritted. “No.”

“That’s quite illegal, you know?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” Her mouth quirked downwards in a little frown, and her eyes fell to her papers again, which sent Draco into a panic. 

_This couldn’t be it! They couldn’t just move on – he hadn’t had a chance to explain!_

“Well, if that’s the case, then I’m afraid-”

“He was trying to _kill me!_ ” Draco shouted. “It was the only spell I could perform wandlessly to defend myself!” 

His outburst made the judge jerk her gaze to him again, while his mother whispered a broken “Oh, Draco…” He held the judge’s eye contact until her harsh expression flickered, and she heaved a heavy sigh. 

“Alright, here’s what we’re going to do. Narcissa: I, Judge Wilhemina Graddlethorn, verify that you have successfully completed your sentence, and, as such, am releasing your wand to you now.” She tapped the desk drawer with her wand, and when she opened it, his mother’s clattered visibly inside. 

The judge handed it to his mother – and his relief at seeing her reunited was only quelled by the overwhelming fear for himself. 

She turned back to face him next. “Draco Lucius Malfoy: as this session has brought up several legal complications, I am required to continue your questioning. Do you agree to be administered another drop of _veritaserum_ in order to complete this questioning, or do you forfeit your opportunity to resolve your sentence at today’s meeting?”

“I choose to continue,” he said immediately. His stomach roiled with a mixture of ominous foreboding and hope – because, somehow, despite admitting to something illegal, he was still being questioned by the judge. He couldn’t lose this chance; he _needed_ his wand back.

“Good,” she replied, nodding. Then, glancing over her shoulder, “That will be all for you, Missus Malfoy.” 

“I…” His mother laid a gentle hand on Draco’s shoulder – in it, all the fear she felt for him. Clearly, she wanted to say more, but Draco covered her hand with his own and gave a quick squeeze before removing it. 

“I’ll be fine, Mother. See you in the lobby.” 

She nodded once, then departed. 

Judge Graddlethorn’s eyes lingered upon him, and he brought the second thimble to his lips after only the slightest hesitation. 

“Right,” she said, “then let’s continue. Describe, to the best of your ability, all the relevant details regarding the situation that resulted in you breaching the privacy of your boss’ mind.”

So Draco told her. He described the working conditions, the mistreatment, the threats that Morpheus had leveled against him that night as well as the discoveries his breach of privacy had purveyed. He outlined as much as he could remember as _fast_ as he could tell it, as he really didn’t want to ingest a third drop of potion if he could avoid it. The _veritaserum_ felt volatile and _sentient_ in his body, and the loss of control reminded him of his dark days during the war. 

“So despite him not _verbally_ voicing a threat, you believed that his former treatment of you, combined with him reaching for his wand, served as the equivalent, and thus acted on said belief, which led to what happened next?” She sounded frightfully neutral about the whole situation, and he feared that it still wasn’t enough context to absolve him. 

“Yes.”

Graddlethorn hummed in thought, before eventually smacking the desk as if making a decision. “Okay. Here’s the thing, Mister Malfoy: it was a messy situation. Does it sound like you had a good reason for doing what you did? Yes. But can I prove that beyond a shadow of a doubt? No – I can’t.”

Draco’s heart sank.

“ _However_ , that’s not really the point here. This case is not, in fact, about your possible transgressions against your former boss, and even if it was, I don’t think we’d have enough information to convict either way. The _point_ is that I need your guarantee that you won’t do it again.” 

He met her piercing gaze and found himself nodding in disbelief. “I won’t! I mean, really – I promise.” Could it really be that easy?

As if sensing his line of thought, her cheeks pinched in a frown. “Not just wandlessly – I need your guarantee that you won’t enter another being’s mind without _express permission_. It’s a matter of morals and invasiveness; everyone has the right to keep their secrets their own, up until they’ve caused irreparable harm to someone that they are prosecuted and sentenced for. As neither a lawmaker nor an enforcer, you have no place in that memory-surrendering process. Even if your life is at stake in the future, you must find another way to defend yourself. If – and only _if_ – you can give me that guarantee, I will process your sentence completion and release your wand to you. _But_ , I will need to collect your memory of the incident with your boss for your file, and I will mark down my stipulation, should you ever be accused of another incident in the future.” 

“Yes,” he said again, swallowing the uncomfortable lump in his throat. “I swear it.”

She nodded once before at last breaking her gaze. And, after some shuffling and signing of papers, his wand was in her hand – and then, it was all he could see. The smooth hawthorn length was so nostalgic, so perfect. He reached out eagerly, and then he was finally holding it again, amazed at the thrum of magic that buzzed through him. 

He couldn’t help it; he laughed. It was like he was eleven years old again, pointing the wand at Ollivander’s desk lamp and causing it to rise – a spell that had never worked for him under his mother’s wand at that age. The joy was childlike and infectious, and filled some of the emptiness in him with _something_. 

Draco rolled the wand between his fingers, delighted at its smooth, familiar grip. For the first time in a long time, Draco knew that he’d be okay. 

**Present**

Draco didn’t ever want to leave Harry’s room, and so he didn’t. He stayed lounging about on the furniture until Harry had the good sense to ask the elves to send up some dinner. As usual, they demonstrated their fervent adoration of the man by sending the most mouth-watering bowls of stew – ones that Draco couldn’t recall ever being this good in the Great Hall – along with an assortment of freshly-baked rolls and a course of pudding to finish. 

The castle was cold this time of night, and Draco said as much to see what Harry would do to accommodate. What he hadn’t expected was for the man to throw one thick blanket over the two of them, tangling their legs where they sat facing each other on the couch. It was startlingly intimate, and it made Draco want to scream that they could have this _all the time_ if they skipped all that hesitant-dating bit and went straight for cohabitation. 

But he didn’t want to be kicked out, so he held his tongue.

Harry had just started to ask him something starting with “Do you-” when a knock broke them from their sappy stares. 

_Shit_. Who would be knocking at this hour? Surely not a professor…

Draco sat up straight. “Student?” he mouthed to Harry, full of compounding guilt for the office-hour prank. 

Harry jumped to his feet, calling, “Err, who is it?” as he spelled away their dinner mess. He gestured frantically for Draco to stand. 

Right. Draco jumped up and searched the room for the fastest place to hide – behind the chairs? Too uncovered, especially if they came in. Under the bed? He wasn’t sure he’d fit. In the wardrobe? The door was broken, and the thing looked like it would fall apart. In panic, he catalogued the room again, seeing only a wasteland of open space. 

“It’s Sam,” a voice said through the door.

“Shit, shit, shit-” Harry was whispering. His eyes fell on Draco again, and he lunged with sudden purpose, manhandling him into the adjacent bathroom and shutting the door. 

“Hey!” Draco hissed – mostly out of surprise – then straightened his clothes with a frown. 

“Oh, _Sam!_ Be right there!” he heard Harry say. There was another few seconds of fumbling before he heard the chamber door creak open. Then, voices again – but this time, too muffled for him to hear. Cursing under his breath, Draco drew his wand and cast an auditory enhancement charm. He pressed his ear to the door and caught the tail end of Harry asking Sam why he’d come. 

“I…I was wondering, well, how you _knew_.” The boy’s voice was hesitant – too hesitant to be speaking of anything other than a sensitive subject. And, as someone who’d felt the weight of restraining such questions in such tones, Draco knew immediately why the boy had come. 

Harry, however, did not.

“Um, ‘knew’ what?” Harry asked.

“You know. Knew you were _different_ ,” Sam tried again. Draco nodded in satisfaction. Yes – surely, _that_ would get through to the hopeless man.

But then, Harry opened his mouth again, and Draco wanted to throttle him. “Like, ‘The Chosen One’ different?” 

“No, not like that.” Sam was starting to sound exasperated. “Like _different_ in who you are…who you _like_.” The last word was said with such emphasis, Draco could almost imagine a knowing wink and nod accompanying it. 

Harry’s long silence was eventually broken by Sam’s outburst: “ _Bi!_ When did you know you were _bi?_ ” 

Draco slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the snort that erupted from him. He cast a quick silencing charm, nearly wheezing. Then, he put his ear back to the door.

“I…well, I found myself liking someone who was also a bloke, and that surprised me a lot, but the more I thought about it, the more it…didn’t seem so much of a surprise,” Harry was saying. 

“But how did you know you were _bi?_ I mean, it could’ve just been a passing fancy, right? An experiment?” Sam sounded like he really _wanted_ that to be possible – for his own sake. 

Draco waited with bated breath until Harry chuckled lightly and said, “Err, no. Definitely not a ‘passing fancy’ – not for me, at least.” Then, he could breathe. 

Finally, Harry got around to the point at hand – asking Sam about his crush. The boy folded and confessed, describing his more-than-friendly feelings for a classmate he’d been hanging out with. When asked if he’d told him yet, though, Sam’s reply was immediate:

“Merlin, no! What if he hates me after?”

The honesty of that fear struck Draco hard enough that he missed Harry’s reply. _What if he hates me after?_ It was a question that had haunted Draco for the majority of his life. Only, with the nauseating addendum: _Oh right – he already does_. 

Being different was a terrible feeling; it took time and suffering to get used to. Throw love into the mix, and it was a volatile compound. The worst feeling in the world was fearing that your love would hate you if they knew who you truly were. 

Harry was arguing that it could go _right_ if Sam worked up the courage to ask, but Sam was buried in the same doubts that Draco’d had. 

“The majority of people don’t just ‘accept’ people who are different.”

He said it despairingly, and Harry was silent. Draco wondered what expressions they were both wearing on the other side of this door.

“I just wish there was proof that it’s all worth it someday,” Sam said mournfully after a pause. “Something that would make it easier to make some sort of decision in the _now_.” 

Draco’s chest ached, and he wasn’t even surprised when Harry quietly murmured, “There is. Proof, I mean.” The man was a bleeding heart – if even _Draco_ had thought of it, then Harry wouldn’t hesitate; he’d known from the beginning what would come next. In preparation, he stood and straightened. 

The door to the bathroom flew open. 

“Hello,” Draco greeted them. He smiled and stepped out, trying to look confident, rather than a continuation of his anguished, teenage self. 

Sam’s eyes widened comically, then flipped between them. “I knew it!” he shouted. Then, he looked embarrassed about it and burst into a laugh. 

“Yes, well, I’ve been told I’m not overly subtle,” Harry muttered. 

“Yeah, no. You’re really not.” The bluntness startled a gasp of surprise from Harry, and Draco kind of wanted to give Sam a handshake for his daring. 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Harry continued, coughing to hide his indignation, “I just wanted to show you that not _all_ relationships end in disaster.” 

“But ours surely will,” Draco quipped, to the infinite amusement of Sam and an immediate glare from Harry. He shrugged and dropped him a wink. 

“What I’m trying to say is…err...”

Merlin, no wonder Harry had praised Draco for his public speaking. It hadn’t been anything special, but this was just pitiful.

“I get it,” Sam cut in, “you’re a bloke, you have a boyfriend, and you’re happy. It’s possible.” 

And hell, if Draco’s heart rate didn’t spike at the combination of “boyfriend” and Harry glancing bashfully at him right after. Harry seemed to be waiting for him to say something – to clarify their relationship, maybe – but as long as Harry wasn’t opposed, Draco swore on his life he wouldn’t correct him. 

He smirked when Harry had been looking too long, and the man blushed spectacularly as he muttered a “Right.” 

But by that point, Sam was lingering by the door. “Well, I didn’t know you had company, so I won’t stay and intrude anymore. But thanks, Professor. It did make me feel better about all this.” He reached for the door handle then hesitated. In a nervous twitch, he fiddled with his sleeve. “You won’t…mention this to anyone, right? I know it’s not good to keep it a secret forever, but for right now…”

“Of course,” Harry rushed to reassure. “I would never tell anyone without your permission.” 

Sam’s eyes fell on Draco, who raised a brow. “I won’t tell, if you don’t.” It seemed a fair trade, as everyone loved to gossip about Harry – and him – it seemed. 

But Sam only nodded and turned the handle. “Goodnight,” he said and slipped away.

“Did you mean it?” Harry demanded as soon as Sam had gone. 

“What?” Draco knew what he was referring to, of course. The redefinition of their relationship was the only thing currently on his mind. However, since Harry seemed to like it when Draco played with him, he was disinclined to be straightforward. 

“You know. The comment Sam made?”

Draco inspected his nails as Harry drove himself to madness. It was all part of the game. “The boy made many comments.” He could feel the frustration crackling in the air and smirked. 

“Are we,” Harry started, “I mean, did you…” He sucked in a deep breath. “Are you my boyfriend now?” 

Draco let his eyes flutter shut for a moment in bliss – that he’d finally reached this moment. This moment he’d self-sabotaged and fantasized about for most of his life. He opened his eyes and considered Harry, to make sure it was real. “Do you want me to be?”

Harry’s cheeks were still flushed, and he looked nervous, but there was no doubt when he answered, “Yes.” 

Draco felt a smile split his face, and he transmuted his happiness the only way he knew how when dealing with Harry: he became an utter prat. If he didn’t, the only alternative was professing his love on his knees – and, _honestly_ , they couldn’t be having that. 

Tapping a finger to face cheekily, instead Draco announced, “I’ll think about it, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta [GallifreyIsBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyIsBurning), and thank YOU for reading! I had a lot of fun writing wizard-court this week (maybe there's another story in there somewhere, someday LOL). So I hope y'all enjoyed. 
> 
> xoxo


	18. Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained

The next day, Draco woke with a smile on his face that startled him into an upright position. He had slept with Harry Potter. _Next to_ Harry Potter – after they’d fooled around late into the night. He’d _stayed_ the night; Harry had _let_ him. 

His cheeks warmed just remembering it, as he geared up for Quidditch later. He was doing up the laces on his boots when he felt a gentle punch to his shoulder.

“Hey. You’re not even listening to me!”

Draco glanced over at Harry and tried to shake the memory of those green eyes dozy with sleep. He’d somehow been even _more_ beautiful in the morning sun. “Hmm?”

“I _said_ that you have to go talk to Minerva about it. Today.”

“About what?”

“The _Floo_. Merlin, you really _weren’t_ listening, were you?”

“You’re distracting,” he grumbled, finishing his laces with a snap. 

“How can I be distracting you from _myself?_ ” Harry’s eyes caught with heat on Draco’s calves before wrenching away. “Anyway, I’m fairly certain she’ll let you Floo if you ask her.”

Draco contemplated it, the pleasant fog he’d been steeped in starting to drift and fade away. “She won’t. She has no reason to.” 

Harry grasped Draco’s face and forced him to meet his eyes. “That’s not true. You being a competent, mature teacher here is reason enough to grant it.” He hesitated, eyes drifting to the side. “Also… I think she’s just really fed up with all the rumors focused on us.” 

A smirk twitched at Draco’s lips. “Yes, well, _that_ I can sympathize with. I think a few Gryffindors saw me leave this morning; one looked a wee bit scandalized, if I recall.”

Harry gave him an unimpressed look. “They did. Minerva brought that up at our meeting as well.”

Draco sighed, pulling on his practice robes over his clothes. “Okay…so, ‘discretion’?”

“Discretion,” Harry confirmed. “Can’t be too hard, right?” His face betrayed him as Draco lifted his pair of Quidditch gloves from the bench. “Right! I’ve got to get going. Gotta, er, meet Ron and Hermione, so…”

He swooped in and planted a kiss on Draco’s cheek that left him stunned and smug in equal parts. 

“Do you promise to go and see Minerva?” He looked hopeful but wary. Like Draco was prone to throwing fits like a child – an assumption that ultimately had him grumbling an affirmative that lit Harry’s face with relief. 

“Good. I’ll see you later!” He took another step towards the door, gaze still lingering.

“Bye.” Draco had half of his hand in a glove when Harry turned and disappeared in a panic. He smiled slowly into the silence, letting the warmth from earlier fill him again. 

He _knew_ what Harry liked now. That was a crazier notion than anything he could’ve dreamed. To know what he looked like, eyes clouded with sheer unrepentant _want_ – it was almost too much to reconcile with his years of unrequited pining. 

It still felt a bit surreal. Like he might wake in the hospital wing and be told he’d taken a bludger to the head on his first day of class and that the rest was his fantasy. _It wasn’t too late to discover_ , he thought darkly; though, in his heart, he knew this was no lie. Even his sappiest, horniest dreams had never brought him the jubilance he radiated now. 

He recalled one particular dream that he’d startled from during the war. How his pleasure had faded to horror, and he’d clapped his hands over his mouth until he couldn’t breathe. What if he’d spoken in his sleep? What if the Dark Lord had _heard_ him? And if not accidental words – then his thoughts? 

He’d Occluded for hours after, not letting himself make more than a whisper, not letting himself do anything so dangerous as to _think_. 

It wasn’t like that now. 

Draco’s mind was clear, his feelings sharp and acute. The jolt that Harry’s glances sent through his body was immediate and reactive, nothing like the hazy touches spiraling through his dreams. Asleep, he was free from the prisons containing him. Awake, Harry was helping him push back the bars.

He finished dressing with a smile, and when he ventured onto the pitch, it was with a rare sense of contentedness. 

**10 months earlier**

_Snap_. 

Draco heard the telltale crack of a breaking broom as he dodged the opponent’s feint. The man went barreling into the ground in a halo of splinters. Shit. 

They were after him today. 

Maybe it had been Draco’s last cheeky comment when Ludo was drawing up his winnings, but the team under the Minister’s financial advisor, Warsnick, was flying relentlessly today. He’d been jostled away from the snitch on three occasions now – all by players who had drifted significantly from their proper placements on the pitch – and Jameson, their Seeker, had all but kicked him in the face on his last fly-by. 

If Draco hadn’t been emboldened by his regained ownership of his wand, he might have fallen back and played more defensively. But the way things stood, he was fed up – and in a rare position of being able to _do something_ about it for once. 

He dropped low to the pitch, ignoring the jeers and boos of the opposing fans below. They were immaterial; he’d grown used to them. He slid forward, slowly, waiting for the glimmer of gold to catch his eye. 

Jameson noticed immediately and dropped down to a similar altitude. He was a good Seeker, after all, but Draco also knew he was easy to rile – he’d learned that from the sloppy aggression he’d fucked with after losing a match to Draco before. So, after a handful of fake-outs chasing gold watches in the crowd or quaffle-tails, he saw Jameson move higher with a huff. 

Which was when he streaked to the opposite side of the pitch, bringing the Green Flash to its full speed with only the merest twitch of intention. 

Jameson shot after him a second later, but by then, it was too late. Draco raised the snitch above his head in triumph, forgoing his customary nod to Bagman in the ecstasy of the moment. 

Jameson’s face soured, and it remained sour when he came pounding on the door with Grant after they’d all ascended into the pub. Draco opened the door with a frown – but this time, he didn’t step aside to let them in. 

After a tense moment of silence, Draco raised an impatient brow. “Yes? Can I help you, gentlemen?”

Grant rolled his eyes at the snark, while Jameson went nearly apoplectic with rage. 

“‘Can I help you?’” he mocked. “Yes – you damn well know you can! Why don’t you spread yourself across the nearest sink, so I can fucking _show_ you?” 

He reached for Draco’s arm, which rose leisurely to aim his wand. 

“How about you leave before I grow irritated?” His voice was tight, his jaw tense. He didn’t let himself dwell on the sweet rush of adrenaline pulsing in his veins; he’d been spoiling for a fight for ages. And he didn’t want to think about what that might mean.

Jameson, however, had no trouble rising to the bait. “What _is_ this? You think you’re hot shit, now that you have a wand again? You think you can take _me?_ ”

Draco smiled coldly. “I don’t ‘think’ – I _know_.” 

“You smug fuc-” He lunged at Draco again, only to be hit with an _impedimenta_ to his gut. 

In the aftermath, Draco rested his wand tip gently against Jameson’s forehead. Softly. The man blinked dazedly up at him from the ground. In his calmest, quietest voice, Draco said, “I’m asking you again to leave.”

Disdain danced in Jameson’s eyes – alongside obvious malice – but there was fear in there now, as well. He got up and left without a word. 

That left Draco and Grant.

Grant sighed with a wry look on his face, scuffing his shoe along the ground before looking up. “Alright,” he said, as if they’d been midway through a conversation. “Is this how it’s going to be, then?”

Draco catalogued him for a moment with narrowed eyes. “It is,” he said at last, deciding. It felt good to have the privilege of decision. 

Grant’s casual expression flickered, revealing something angry underneath. But he gathered himself and smiled – the gesture not quite reaching his eyes. “So you’re all set from here, then? No bruises to heal, no teammates to celebrate with?” His voice was forcedly light as he added, “No one to thank for keeping you safe all this time?” 

“No,” Draco spoke clearly. “I’m set.”

“Fine.” Grant’s voice was as flat as his eyes. “I see. But keep in mind that I was _helping_ you. I kept the most unsavory lot away from you, so you never even knew. I won’t be doing that anymore.”

“Fine,” Draco echoed, the high of his refusal mingling with fresh fear and foreboding. He stared Grant down until the man turned and left. 

Then, he sagged against the doorway, wand arm falling back to his side. It was over – finally. And, as good as it felt to knock the ego out of Jameson, Grant’s words haunted him as considered his prison again. 

What if Grant was right? He needed an ally in these games – whether he wanted to fuck them or not. To Ludo, he was an investment, but to the others? He was a fancy jewel: one to be collected for status or smashed. And after his recent arrogance, he could only foresee the latter. 

It wasn’t like the wand changed things – not really. He was still unemployable, he still had no home to return to, and he still hadn’t gotten any closer to unraveling the knot of feelings in his chest about finding love with a boy. Ultimately, he was the same mess of a person he’d always been.

Draco shut the bathroom door with a _snick_ and stared into the mirror at his reflected eyes. Yes, they were still wide and haunted. Perhaps this was better than Morpheus’, but it was a far cry from the future he wanted. The one he had all but given up hopes for.

He pressed his head against the cool glass and thought instead of the slight smile Gloria had given him when he’d handed his wand over this week. Her eyes were usually filled with such pity and concern, and the change was startling enough to spark confidence in him. If the barmaid had trusted that he would be okay now, then he supposed it was his duty to, as well. 

It was a rough game he played, but not without its virtues, and at least he was getting better at Quidditch. That was a more marketable skill than hiding unwillingly from customers, wasn’t it? 

He stayed locked in the bathroom for a long time.

**Present**

The Slytherins were rowdy today – likely because they didn’t have another match until after winter break. In the meantime, it seemed, they could afford to fool around.

Fenn had guilted Draco into several hours of drills and scrimmages, but, nearing the end now, it had wound down into nothing more than a chaotic pickup game. Somewhere along the way, he’d stolen a beater’s bat from Kat’s outstretched hand – but only after _she_ had nearly concussed him with a quaffle. Fenn and Marla were staging some sort of coup at the goalposts, while Kyle, a weedy-looking fifth-year chaser, had given up the rules and snatched the snitch. 

It was freeing; it was thrilling; it was…utterly unhelpful for improving their Quidditch techniques. But he figured a practice or two like that wouldn’t kill them, either. He wished _he’d_ had a chance to mess around like this back in school – in a world where sports scores were the most important things to fight about. 

He dismounted his broom as the others were filing to the lockers, muddy and wind-worn. Marla stood slightly off to the side, and Draco couldn’t help remembering Sam’s visit to Harry the previous night. Perhaps Marla needed someone to confide in as well – though he didn’t want to overstep. 

He wandered over to her side, but only after several minutes went by without her moving. She had her broom clasped loosely in her grip, pretending to be rearranging the bristles, though he could see they were just fine. 

“You alright?” he asked softly. 

She startled and glanced up. “Oh? Yeah…yeah, I’m fine.” She tugged at the strands a little more harshly, eyes settling far off in the distance. 

Draco smiled a bit sadly as he slipped his hands in his pockets and stared at the horizon with her. “It’s okay if you aren’t.” 

For a while, she said nothing. Instead, she let her hand droop, broom falling to rest on the ground. 

“Is this about Kat?” At her silence, he continued, “I’m sorry about Halloween. I realize I never apologized for comments – I… I made too many assumptions, and I’m sorry if that made things weird between you two.” He didn’t _think_ they’d been acting differently around each other, but he also knew there was much he didn’t know. 

Marla’s lips curved into a contemplative frown. “It’s not… I mean, I don’t think she even noticed. And it’s not about that – not entirely.”

He drew a breath in and held it, waiting for her to continue. The next time she glanced up, he saw the moment her hesitation broke down into relief at confessing.

“It’s not like a crush or anything,” she said, surprising him. “I mean, I think Kat’s the greatest, and she’s my best friend, but…” Here, she took a deep breath. “I just want to be like her.”

Draco’s brows drew together in confusion. “Be like her? How?”

Marla chewed on her lip. “Like strong and cool and considerate and more outgoing. Less… _girly_.”

Draco met her eye. “Being ‘girly’ isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

She nodded, impatient. “Yeah, I know. But it’s not what I want to be. I feel…weird when I’m grouped with the girls. That’s why I like Kat – it’s like she’s outside all of that, too.” 

Oh. _Oh_. 

In an instant, Draco realized what this must be about, just as he realized he didn’t have any good advice to give. He’d heard of this – seen mentions in books, mostly – but he had never really dedicated much thought beyond the fact that it existed and didn’t apply to him; he’d steered towards learning more about being _gay_ instead. Though, now he regretted that. He wanted to say the _right_ thing – the thing that would help Marla the most, and he didn’t know what that was.

He’d no longer accept ignorance as an excuse.

“Do you… do you feel more like a bloke, then?” He winced at how clunky the question sounded in his mouth. 

Marla glanced up at him, wide-eyed. “No! I mean, maybe? I don’t know. I just…I want to be different than the way I am now. I don’t know about the rest, though.” 

“That’s okay.” He cleared his throat, still trying to think of the best thing to say – but the perfect script eluded him. “Really, it’s okay. Lots of people feel like that, I’m sure. I… Well, if you need someone to talk to about it, you can always come to me.”

She looked up at him gratefully, then hefted her school-issued Nimbus 2001. “Thanks. I will.” She sounded a little shaky, like the confession had affected her more than she pretended. 

Draco could relate to that all too well. 

They parted ways at the edge of the pitch, and he watched her red ponytail bobbing after her as she disappeared into the lockers. It wasn’t even a question, where he was going next. 

After changing into robes, he headed for the library.

Draco scoured the shelves for several hours to find anything he could about sex and gender – which he now realized were two separate things, thanks to a few chapters in a book by Judith Butler. For the first time in his life, he thanked Dumbledore for establishing a Muggle book section at the library. Not to say there weren’t magical sources on these topics – there _were_ – but most of the ones he found after a cursory search focused on altering inheritance blood rites to include women, starting in the 1800s. Apparently, there were ways to “trick” magic into thinking you were a firstborn son instead of a daughter, but not much information on if you were _actually_ a firstborn son who everyone _thought_ was a daughter. 

His head was spinning with new information, and he had checked out several books to give to Marla. For now, though, he disillusioned them as potion books; he didn’t want to explain the situation to anyone until Marla was ready, and he was sure she’d appreciate the discretion. 

Speaking of “discretion,” his last errand of the day was visiting McGonagall – one that he was dreading a bit, if he was being honest. The last time they’d had a private talk in her office, he’d gotten pathetically emotional and basically confessed his undying love for Harry; he was determined to keep himself more composed today.

When he reached the gryphon statue after dinner, he intoned “punctuality is key” a few times, until he heard the telltale click of McGonagall’s sensible shoes behind him. 

“Try ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained,’” she said, a hint of humor coloring her voice. 

Draco rolled his eyes – Harry had used the former password only this morning, so he knew she had changed it to mess with him. He wondered, not for the first time, whether McGonagall was actually as Gryffindor as he’d thought. “My apologies. I wasn’t informed the passwords were _hourly_. Security must be tightening.”

He was gratified when she swatted him with a roll of parchment, lip twitching even more dramatically. “Don’t be insufferable, Mister Malfoy. I hear you came to ask a favor.”

His smirk dropped, but she didn’t seem truly annoyed, so he let himself relax a fraction. “Yes.”

“Well then,” she said, nodding approvingly, “we’d better discuss this further in my office.”

It was with great joy and relief that Draco _Flooed_ into Harry’s room that evening instead of sneaking. And, by Harry’s expression, he was equally delighted. 

“You did it! See – I told you!” 

“Yes, yes. I braved the lion’s den for this; don’t cheapen it.” He swooped in to press a kiss to Harry’s mouth, which he accepted eagerly, dropping the book he was reading. Draco drew back, savoring the way Harry’s head lurched forward, chasing his lips. 

He chuckled quietly. “Alright Harry. Now tell me why you were acting so cagey at dinner.” 

The man startled, blinking his half-lidded eyes fully open. They were almost an iridescent green. “I, er… well, why do you say that?”

Draco scoffed, shedding his robes and folding them before seating himself next to Harry. “You kept starting sentences with ‘Actually, I-’ then breaking off and telling me mundane updates about Weasley and Granger’s lives – all whilst continuing to frown like a kicked crup. Was that _supposed_ to be ‘normal behavior’?” He leveled at glance at his boyfriend, who was quickly turning scarlet. 

“I…well, no. I suppose not.” 

“And?”

Harry heaved a sigh. “And…Molly Weasley may have sentabunchofChristmassweaterstoyourfamilyestateoutofrevenge…”

“Molly Weasley did _what?_ ” Draco paused in the act of pouring himself a drink. He set the firewhisky he’d summoned back on the table with a snap. 

Harry had the gall to look tentatively amused. “She sent your father all the jumpers she knitted me for Christmas.” 

Draco stared at him. Harry’s face remained solemn for a few seconds, then his eyebrows wavered and his mouth cracked into an unstable grin. 

“And you are laughing about this _because?_ ” Draco grabbed him by the front of the shirt to reinforce the severity of his own confession, but Harry merely folded into him with laughter. _What the hell was funny about any of this?_ The mere thought made Draco want to dig his own grave, here and now.

“I…I don’t know,” Harry wheezed, still giggling. “Just the thought of your dad’s face.”

Draco stilled, imagining it himself. But it wasn’t a humorous picture. 

“I’m sorry, really. I know it’s not funny, but-” Harry tried – and failed – to suppress a laugh, “I can just see him turning his nose up at the package and dropping it on the ground like he’d touched something awful and going ‘From the Weasleys? _Preposterous!_ ’”

Draco fought to remain serious as Harry’s outrageous impression of his father threatened to drag him, too, into this hysteria. Not to mention that that scenario didn’t sound far off. 

Harry seemed encouraged by the fact Draco hadn’t hexed him yet. “And then,” he continued, “he’d prod them disdainfully with his cane and set them on fire or something, then order his house elves to purify the spot the package touched, so it didn’t ‘taint the Manor with poverty’ or whatever!” He wrapped his fingers around Draco’s biceps, grounding himself in his hilarity.

“It’s not a cane, it’s a _walking stick!_ ” His automatic response had Draco finally breaking into a grin at the absurdity of it all. 

“ _Narcissa dear, can you_ believe _it?_ ” Harry went on, drawling his vowels and snapping his consonants in a frankly _appalling_ imitation. “ _Those blood traitors dared sully my doorstep with these wool monstrosities! The yarn isn’t even flecked with gold._ ”

Draco released Harry’s shirt with a shove, laughing – despite himself – then masking it with a hand to his mouth. “You quarrelsome _git_.” 

“ _In_ my _family, everyone wears clothes that have been carefully selected by the fashion designers at_ Witch Weekly _and blessed by the Minister himself!_ ” 

That was it. 

Draco tackled Harry, forcing him backwards onto the couch. He climbed atop him, pinning his hands in a light display of dominance. “Is this your way of complimenting my style, Potter? There are more honest ways of doing so.” He drifted his lips over Harry’s, smirking as the man tried – once again – to chase his lips as he pulled back. 

“I’m not complimenting,” Harry huffed. “I’m saying you’re bloody _ridiculous_.”

“For wearing clothes that fit me?” He pressed his knee to Harry’s groin, delighting at the strangled moan it wrenched out of the other man.

Harry took a moment to catch his breath. “For spending two hundred galleons on a pair of shoes,” he finally managed. 

“Mmm,” Draco murmured, sucking lightly at Harry’s neck. “ _Three_ hundred. They were an exclusive series of dragon hide. Antipodean Opaleye.” Something clicked in his mind, and he drew back a fraction. “And I’m surprised you knew that.”

Harry blushed, his eyes darting to the side. _Merlin, his tells were so obvious_. 

He sat back even further and narrowed his eyes at the man beneath him. “I got those boots fourth year, and you _definitely_ couldn’t spot designer brands back then.” _Still_ couldn’t, probably. “You looked up my shoes, didn’t you?” 

“ _No._ I just…I guessed!”

A smirk stole across Draco’s face as he digested this tidbit. “You _totally_ did. Merlin, Potter, _fourth year?_ I thought you weren’t ‘interested’ in me until a few weeks ago?” 

“They were really flashy and pretentious!” he protested. “So I asked around the dorm _if you must know_.” He squirmed under Draco’s grip, jaw tightening with defiance. “And speaking of fourth year, your buttons _sucked!_ ”

That startled Draco into a laugh. “What, the ‘Potter Stinks’ ones?” 

As if there were others.

Harry scowled spectacularly. “Yeah, ha ha very creative. If anything, the fact that you made those buttons proved that back then _you_ were the one obsessed with _me_.” He tossed the idea out there casually, like it was fodder for their banter, but nothing more. Certainly not something he expected Draco to admit to – which was partially why he _did_.

“I don’t deny it.”

Harry’s gaze snapped to his, eyes widening at the confession. He sucked in a deep breath. “You mean…even fourth year-”

“I’m not playing this game, Harry,” he interrupted. “I told you that.” 

He still wasn’t willing to disclose _everything_ to Harry – at least, not yet. He needed to let things settle for a while; he needed proof that Harry wouldn’t turn and run. In the meantime, he could reveal himself in fragments. 

Seeing the stubbornness on Draco’s face, Harry relented. “Fine. Then here’s a different subject: are you going to stay over, now that Minerva’s given you permission to Floo?”

The tension eased as Draco felt the smugness worm its way back across his face. “She did, didn’t she?” 

It opened a world of possibilities for them, and he intended to make the most of it. Yes – he would stay the night. He might just stay forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So since I've been terrible about upkeeping my regular schedule for this fic, I've decided to do you a solid and post this chapter a week early 😂 (Please don't abandon it - I swear I'm going to finish it on a [somewhat] consistent timeline!)
> 
> Anyway, we're getting into some of the queer mentor moments that are near and dear to my heart. I just have this mental image of awkward preteen boys flocking to Harry for advice, while queer preteen girls would definitely gravitate towards Draco. That's just how I imagine it, at least. 
> 
> Thanks again to my beta for the quick work, and thanks to you all for reading!   
> xoxo


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